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JOHN  SKALLY  TERRY 
MEMORIAL  COLLECTION 


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JOHN  S.  TERRY 

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.    Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2012  with  fundingfrom 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/newchroniclesofrwigg 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF 

REBECCA 

BY 

KATE   DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 

Illustrated 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  I906  AND  I907  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

COPYRIGHT   1907   BY   KATE  DOUGLAS   RIGGS 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  April  igo? 


CONTENTS 

FIRST  CHRONICLE 
JACK  O' LANTERN I 

SECOND  CHRONICLE 
DAUGHTERS  OF  ZION 35 

THIRD  CHRONICLE 
REBECCA'S  THOUGHT  BOOK 58 

FOURTH  CHRONICLE 
A  TRAGEDY  IN  MILLINERY 100 

FIFTH  CHRONICLE 
THE  SAVING  OF  THE  COLORS 118 

SIXTH  CHRONICLE 
THE  STATE  O'  MAINE  GIRL 151 

SEVENTH  CHRONICLE 
THE  LITTLE  PROPHET 167 

EIGHTH  CHRONICLE 
ABNER  SIMPSON'S  NEW  LEAF 195 


504594 


vi  CONTENTS 

NINTH  CHRONICLE 
THE  GREEN  ISLE 215 

TENTH  CHRONICLE 
REBECCA'S  REMINISCENCES 231 

ELEVENTH  CHRONICLE 
ABIJAH  THE  BRAVE  AND  THE  FAIR  EMMA  JANE     25* 


NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 


If  thou  couldst  know  thine  own  sweetness, 
O  little  one,  perfect  and  sweet, 

Thou  wouldst  be  a  child  forever ; 
Completer,  whilst  incomplete. 

Francis  Turner  Palgrave 


NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

First  Chronicle 
JACK  O'   LANTERN 


MISS  MIRANDA  SAWYER'S  old-fash- 
ioned garden  was  the  pleasantest  spot 
in  Riverboro  on  a  sunny  July  morning. 
The  rich  color  of  the  brick  house  gleamed  and 
glowed  through  the  shade  of  the  elms  and  maples. 
Luxuriant  hop-vines  clambered  up  the  lightning- 
rods  and  water-spouts,  hanging  their  delicate  clus- 
ters here  and  there  in  graceful  profusion.  Woodbine 
transformed  the  old  shed  and  tool-house  to  things 
of  beauty,  and  the  flower-beds  themselves  were  the 
prettiest  and  most  fragrant  in  all  the  countryside. 
A  row  of  dahlias  ran  directly  around  the  garden 
spot,  —  dahlias  scarlet,  gold,  and  variegated.  In  the 
very  centre  was  a  round  plot  where  the  upturned 
faces  of  a  thousand  pansies  smiled  amid  their  leaves, 
and  in  the  four  corners  were  triangular  blocks  of 
sweet  phlox  over  which  the  butterflies  fluttered  un- 
ceasingly. In  the  spaces  between  ran  a  riot  of  por- 
tulaca  and  nasturtiums,  while  in  the  more  regular, 

I 


NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

shell-bordered  beds  grew  spirea  and  gillyflowers, 
mignonette,  marigolds,  and  clove  pinks. 

Back  of  the  barn  and  encroaching  on  the  edge 
of  the  hay-field  was  a  grove  of  sweet  clover  whose 
white  feathery  tips  fairly  bent  under  the  assaults 
of  the  bees,  while  banks  of  aromatic  mint  and 
thyme  drank  in  the  sunshine  and  sent  it  out  again 
into  the  summer  air,  warm  and  deliciously  odorous. 

The  hollyhocks  were  Miss  Sawyer's  pride,  and 
they  grew  in  a  stately  line  beneath  the  four  kitchen 
windows,  their  tapering  tips  set  thickly  with  gay 
satin  circlets  of  pink  or  lavender  or  crimson. 

"They  grow  something  like  steeples,"  thought 
little  Rebecca  Randall,  who  was  weeding  the  bed, 
"  and  the  flat,  round  flowers  are  like  rosettes ;  but 
steeples  would  n't  be  studded  with  rosettes,  so  if 
you  were  writing  about  them  in  a  composition 
you  'd  have  to  give  up  one  or  the  other,  and  I  think 
I  '11  give  up  the  steeples :  — 

Gay  little  hollyhock 

Lifting  your  head, 
Sweetly  resetted 

Out  from  your  bed. 

It 's  a  pity  the  hollyhock  is  n't  really  little,  instead 
of  steepling  up  to  the  window-top,  but  I  can't  say, 
'  Gay  tall  hollyhock.'  ...  I  might  have  it '  Lines 
to  a  Hollyhock  in  May,'  for  then  it  would  be  small ; 
but  oh,  no  !  I  forgot ;  in  May  it  would  n't  be  bloom- 

2 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

ing,  and  it 's  so  pretty  to  say  that  its  head  is 
'  sweetly  rosetted.'  ...  I  wish  the  teacher  was  n't 
away ;  she  would  like  '  sweetly  rosetted,'  and  she 
would  like  to  hear  me  recite  '  Roll  on,  thou  deep 
and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll ! '  that  I  learned  out  of 
Aunt  Jane's  Byron ;  the  rolls  come  booming  out 
of  it  just  like  the  waves  at  the  beach.  ...  I  could 
make  nice  compositions  now,  everything  is  bloom- 
ing so,  and  it 's  so  warm  and  sunny  and  happy  out- 
doors. Miss  Dearborn  told  me  to  write  something 
in  my  thought  book  every  single  day,  and  I  '11  begin 
this  very  night  when  I  go  to  bed." 

Rebecca  Rowena  Randall,  the  little  niece  of  the 
brick-house  ladies,  and  at  present  sojourning  there 
for  purposes  of  board,  lodging,  education,  and  in- 
cidentally such  discipline  and  chastening  as  might 
ultimately  produce  moral  excellence,  —  Rebecca 
Randall  had  a  passion  for  the  rhyme  and  rhythm 
of  poetry.  From  her  earliest  childhood  words  had 
always  been  to  her  what  dolls  and  toys  are  to  other 
children,  and  now  at  twelve  she  amused  herself  with 
phrases  and  sentences  and  images  as  her  school- 
mates played  with  the  pieces  of  their  dissected 
puzzles.  If  the  heroine  of  a  story  took  a  "  cursory 
glance  "  about  her  "  apartment,"  Rebecca  would 
shortly  ask  her  Aunt  Jane  to  take  a  "cursory 
glance  "  at  her  oversewing  or  hemming ;  if  the  vil- 
lain "  aided  and  abetted  "  some  one  in  committing 

3 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

a  crime,  she  would  before  long  request  the  pleasure 
of  "aiding  and  abetting"  in  dishwashing  or  bed- 
making.  |  Sometimes  she  used  the  borrowed  phrases 
unconsciously ;  sometimes  she  brought  them  into 
the  conversation  with  an  intense  sense  of  pleasure 
in  their  harmony  or  appropriateness ;  for  a  beautiful 
word  or  sentence  had  the  same  effect  upon  her  im- 
agination as  a  fragrant  nosegay,  a  strain  of  music, 
or  a  brilliant  sunset. 

"How  are  you  gettin'  on,  Rebecca  Rowena?" 
called  a  peremptory  voice  from  within. 

"  Pretty  good,  Aunt  Miranda  ;  only  I  wish  flow- 
ers would  ever  come  up  as  thick  as  this  pigweed 
and  plantain  and  sorrel.  What  makes  weeds  be 
thick  and  flowers  be  thin  ?  —  I  just  happened  to  be 
stopping  to  think  a  minute  when  you  looked  out." 

"  You  think  considerable  more  than  you  weed, 
I  guess,  by  appearances.  How  many  times  have 
you  peeked  into  that  hummingbird's  nest?  Why 
don't  you  work  all  to  once  and  play  all  to  once,  like 
other  folks  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  child  answered,  confounded 
by  the  question,  and  still  more  by  the  apparent  logic 
back  of  it.  "I  don't  know,  Aunt  Miranda,  but  when 
I'm  working  outdoors  such  a  Saturday  morning 
as  this,  the  whole  creation  just  screams  to  me  to 
stop  it  and  come  and  play." 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  go  if  it  does ! "  responded  her 
4 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

aunt  sharply.  "  It  don't  scream  to  me  when  I  *m 
rollin'  out  these  doughnuts,  and  it  would  n't  to  you 
if  your  mind  was  on  your  duty." 

Rebecca's  little  brown  hands  flew  in  and  out 
among  the  weeds  as  she  thought  rebelliously :  "  Cre- 
ation would  n't  scream  to  Aunt  Miranda ;  it  would 
know  she  would  n't  come. 

Scream  on,  thou  bright  and  gay  creation,  scream  ! 
'T  is  not  Miranda  that  will  hear  thy  cry  I 

Oh,  such  funny,  nice  things  come  into  my  head 
out  here  by  myself,  I  do  wish  I  could  run  up  and 
put  them  down  in  my  thought  book  before  I  forget 
them,  but  Aunt  Miranda  would  n't  like  me  to  leave 
off  weeding :  — 

Rebecca  was  weeding  the  hollyhock  bed 

When  wonderful  thoughts  came  into  her  head. 

Her  aunt  was  occupied  with  the  rolling-pin 

And  the  thoughts  of  her  mind  were  common  and  thin. 

That  would  n't  do  because  it 's  mean  to  Aunt 
Miranda,  and  anyway  it  is  n't  good.  I  must  crawl 
under  the  syringa  shade  a  minute,  it 's  so  hot,  and 
anybody  has  to  stop  working  once  in  a  while,  just 
to  get  their  breath,  even  if  they  were  n't  making 
poetry. 

Rebecca  was  weeding  the  hollyhock  bed 

When  marvelous  thoughts  came  into  her  head. 

Miranda  was  wielding  the  rolling-pin 

And  thoughts  at  such  times  seemed  to  her  as  a  sin. 

5 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

How  pretty  the  hollyhock  rosettes  look  from  down 
here  on  the  sweet,  smelly  ground ! 

"  Let  me  see  what  would  go  with  rosetting.  Aid- 
ing and  abetting,  petting,  hen-setting,  fretting,  — 
there's  nothing  very  nice,  but  I  can  make  'fret- 
ting '  do. 

Cheered  by  Rowena's  petting, 
The  flowers  are  rosetting, 
But  Aunt  Miranda's  fretting 
Doth  somewhat  cloud  the  day." 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  wagon  wheels  broke  the 
silence  and  then  a  voice  called  out  —  a  voice  that 
could  not  wait  until  the  feet  that  belonged  to  it 
reached  the  spot :  "  Miss  Szw-yer/  Father's  got  to 
drive  over  to  North  Riverboro  on  an  errand,  and 
please  can  Rebecca  go,  too,  as  it 's  Saturday  morn- 
ing and  vacation  besides  ? " 

Rebecca  sprang  out  from  under  the  syringa- 
bush,  eyes  flashing  with  delight  as  only  Rebec- 
ca's eyes  could  flash,  her  face  one  luminous  circle 
of  joyous  anticipation.  She  clapped  her  grubby 
hands,  and  dancing  up  and  down,  cried  :  "  May  I, 
Aunt  Miranda  —  can  I,  Aunt  Jane  —  can  I,  Aunt 
Miranda-Jane  ?  I  'm  more  than  half  through  the 
bed." 

"  If  you  finish  your  weeding  to-night  before 
sundown  I  s'pose  you  can  go,  so  long  as  Mr.  Per- 
kins has  been  good  enough  to  ask  you,"  responded 

6 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

Miss  Sawyer  reluctantly.  "  Take  off  that  gingham 
apron  and  wash  your  hands  clean  at  the  pump. 
You  ain't  be'n  out  o'  bed  but  two  hours  an'  your 
head  looks  as  rough  as  if  you  'd  slep'  in  it.  That 
comes  from  layin'  on  the  ground  same  as  a  cater- 
pillar. Smooth  your  hair  down  with  your  hands  an' 
p'r'aps  Emma  Jane  can  braid  it  as  you  go  along  the 
road.  Run  up  and  get  your  second-best  hair  ribbon 
out  o'  your  upper  drawer  and  put  on  your  shade- 
hat.  No,  you  can't  wear  your  coral  chain  —  jewelry 
ain't  appropriate  in  the  morning.  How  long  do  you 
cal'late  to  be  gone,  Emma  Jane  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Father 's  just  been  sent  for  to 
see  about  a  sick  woman  over  to  North  Riverboro. 
She  's  got  to  go  to  the  poor-farm." 

This  fragment  of  news  speedily  brought  Miss 
Sawyer,  and  her  sister  Jane  as  well,  to  the  door, 
which  commanded  a  view  of  Mr.  Perkins  and  his 
wagon.  Mr.  Perkins,  the  father  of  Rebecca's  bosom 
friend,  was  primarily  a  blacksmith,  and  secondarily 
a  selectman  and  an  overseer  of  the  poor,  a  man 
therefore  possessed  of  wide  and  varied  informa- 
tion. 

"  Who  is  it  that 's  sick  ? "  inquired  Miranda. 

"A  woman  over  to  North  Riverboro." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"  Can't  say." 

"  Stranger  ? " 

7 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"  Yes,  and  no ;  she 's  that  wild  daughter  of  old 
Nate  Perry  that  used  to  live  up  towards  Modera- 
tion. You  remember  she  ran  away  to  work  in  the 
factory  at  Milltown  and  married  a  do-nothin'  fellow 
by  the  name  o'  John  Winslow  ? " 

"  Yes ;  well,  where  is  he  ?  Why  don't  he  take 
care  of  her  ?  " 

"They  ain't  worked  well  in  double  harness. 
They  've  been  rovin'  round  the  country,  livin'  a 
month  here  and  a  month  there  wherever  they  eould 
get  work  and  house-room.  They  quarreled  a  couple 
o'  weeks  ago  and  he  left  her.  She  and  the  little 
boy  kind  o'  camped  out  in  an  old  loggin'  cabin  back 
in  the  woods  and  she  took  in  washin'  for  a  spell ; 
then  she  got  terrible  sick  and  ain't  expected  to 
live." 

"  Who 's  been  nursing  her  ? "  inquired  Miss  Jane. 

"  Lizy  Ann  Dennett,  that  lives  nearest  neighbor 
to  the  cabin ;  but  I  guess  she 's  tired  out  bein'  good 
Samaritan.  Anyways,  she  sent  word  this  mornin' 
that  nobody  can't  seem  to  find  John  Winslow ;  that 
there  ain't  no  relations,  and  the  town  's  got  to  be 
responsible,  so  I  'm  goin'  over  to  see  how  the  land 
lays.  Climb  in,  Rebecca.  You  an'  Emmy  Jane 
crowd  back  on  the  cushion  an'  I  '11  set  forrard. 
That 's  the  trick !   Now  we  're  off !  " 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  sighed  Jane  Sawyer  as  the  sisters 
walked  back  into  the  brick  house.    "  I  remember 

8 


JACK  O'  LANTERN 

once  seeing  Sally  Perry  at  meeting.  She  was  a 
handsome  girl,  and  I  'm  sorry  she 's  come  to  grief." 

"  If  she  'd  kep'  on  goin'  to  meetin'  an'  had  n't 
looked  at  the  men  folks  she  might  'a'  be'n  earnin' 
an  honest  livin'  this  minute,"  said  Miranda.  "Men 
folks  are  at  the  bottom  of  everything  wrong  in  this 
world,"  she  continued,  unconsciously  reversing  the 
verdict  of  history. 

"  Then  we  ought  to  be  a  happy  and  contented 
community  here  in  Riverboro,"  replied  Jane,  "as 
there's  six  women  to  one  man." 

"If  't  was  sixteen  to  one  we'd  be  all  the  safer," 
responded  Miranda  grimly,  putting  the  doughnuts 
in  a  brown  crock  in  the  cellar-way  and  slamming 
the  door. 

II 

The  Perkins  horse  and  wagon  rumbled  along 
over  the  dusty  country  road,  and  after  a  discreet 
silence,  maintained  as  long  as  human  flesh  could 
endure,  Rebecca  remarked  sedately :  —  f 

"  It 's  a  sad  errand  for  such  a  shiny  morning, 
is  n't  it,  Mr.  Perkins  ? " 

"  Plenty  o'  trouble  in  the  world,  Rebecky,  shiny 
mornin's  an'  all,"  that  good  man  replied.  "  If  you 
want  a  bed  to  lay  on,  a  roof  over  your  head,  an' 
food  to  eat,  you  've  got  to  work  for  'em.  If  I 
had  n't  'a'  labored  early  an'  late,  learned  my  trade, 

9 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

an'  denied  myself  when  I  was  young,  I  might  'a' 
be'n  a  pauper  layin'  sick  in  a  loggin'  cabin,  'stead 
o'  bein'  an  overseer  o'  the  poor  an'  selectman  drivin' 
along  to  take  the  pauper  to  the  poor-farm." 

"  People  that  are  mortgaged  don't  have  to  go  to 
the  poor-farm,  do  they,  Mr.  Perkins  ? "  asked  Re- 
becca, with  a  shiver  of  fear  as  she  remembered  her 
home  farm  at  Sunnybrook  and  the  debt  upon  it ;  a 
debt  which  had  lain  like  a  shadow  over  her  child- 
hood. 

"  Bless  your  soul,  no  ;  not  unless  they  fail  to  pay 
up ;  but  Sal  Perry  an'  her  husband  had  n't  got  fur 
enough  along  in  life  to  be  mortgaged.  You  have  to 
own  something  before  you  can  mortgage  it." 

Rebecca's  heart  bounded  as  she  learned  that  a 
mortgage  represented  a  certain  stage  in  worldly 
prosperity. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  sniffing  in  the  fragrance  of  the 
new-mown  hay  and  growing  hopeful  as  she  did  so  ; 
"  maybe  the  sick  woman  will  be  better  such  a  beau- 
tiful day,  and  maybe  the  husband  will  come  back 
to  make  it  up  and  say  he 's  sorry,  and  sweet  con- 
tent will  reign  in  the  humble  habitation  that  was 
once  the  scene  of  poverty,  grief,  and  despair. 
That 's  how  it  came  out  in  a  story  I  'm  reading." 

"  I  hain't  noticed  that  life  comes  out  like  stories 
very  much,"  responded  the  pessimistic  blacksmith, 
who,  as  Rebecca  privately  thought,  had  read  less 

10 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

than  half  a  dozen  books  in  his  long  and  prosperous 
career. 

A  drive  of  three  or  four  miles  brought  the  party 
to  a  patch  of  woodland  where  many  of  the  tall  pines 
had  been  hewn  the  previous  winter.  The  roof  of  a 
ramshackle  hut  was  outlined  against  a  background 
of  young  birches,  and  a  rough  path  made  in  hauling 
the  logs  to  the  main  road  led  directly  to  its  door. 

As  they  drew  near  the  figure  of  a  woman  ap- 
proached —  Mrs.  Lizy  Ann  Dennett,  in  a  gingham 
dress,  with  a  calico  apron  over  her  head. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Perkins,"  said  the  woman, 
who  looked  tired  and  irritable.  "  I  'm  real  glad  you 
come  right  over,  for  she  took  worse  after  I  sent  you 
word,  and  she  's  dead." 

Dead !  The  word  struck  heavily  and  mysteri- 
ously on  the  children's  ears.  Dead  !  and  their 
young  lives,  just  begun,  stretched  on  and  on,  all 
decked,  like  hope,  in  living  green.  Dead !  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  reveling  in  strength.  Dead  ! 
with  all  the  daisies  and  buttercups  waving  in  the 
fields  and  the  men  heaping  the  mown  grass  into 
fragrant  cocks  or  tossing  it  into  heavily  laden  carts. 
Dead !  with  the  brooks  tinkling  after  the  summer 
showers,  with  the  potatoes  and  corn  blossoming, 
the  birds  singing  for  joy,  and  every  little  insect 
humming  and  chirping,  adding  its  note  to  the  blithe 
chorus  of  warm,  throbbing  life. 

II 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"  I  was  all  alone  with  her.  She  passed  away 
suddenly  jest  about  break  o'  day,"  said  Lizy  Ann 
Dennett. 

"  Her  soul  passed  upward  to  its  God 
Just  at  the  break  of  day." 

These  words  came  suddenly  into  Rebecca's  mind 
from  a  tiny  chamber  where  such  things  were  wont 
to  lie  quietly  until  something  brought  them  to  the 
surface.  She  could  not  remember  whether  she  had 
heard  them  at  a  funeral  or  read  them  in  the  hymn 
book  or  made  them  up  "out  of  her  own  head,"  but 
she  was  so  thrilled  with  the  idea  of  dying  just  as 
the  dawn  was  breaking  that  she  scarcely  heard 
Mrs.  Dennett's  conversation. 

"  I  sent  for  Aunt  Beulah  Day,  an'  she  's  be'n 
here  an'  laid  her  out,"  continued  the  long-suffer- 
ing Lizy  Ann.  "  She  ain't  got  any  folks,  an'  John 
Winslow  ain't  never  had  any  as  far  back  as  I  can 
remember.  She  belongs  to  your  town  and  you  '11 
have  to  bury  her  and  take  care  of  Jacky  —  that 's 
the  boy.  He  's  seventeen  months  old,  a  bright  little 
feller,  the  image  o'  John,  but  I  can't  keep  him  an- 
other day.  I  'm  all  wore  out ;  my  own  baby 's  sick, 
mother's  rheumatiz  is  extry  bad,  and  my  husband  's 
comin'  home  to-night  from  his  week's  work.  If  he 
finds  a  child  o'  John  Winslow's  under  his  roof  I 
can't  say  what  would  happen ;  you  '11  have  to  take 
him  back  with  you  to  the  poor-farm." 

12 


JACK   O5  LANTERN 

"  I  can't  take  him  up  there  this  afternoon,"  ob. 
jected  Mr.  Perkins. 

"Well,  then,  keep  him  over  Sunday  yourself; 
he's  good  as  a  kitten.  John  Winslow'll  hear  o* 
Sal's  death  sooner  or  later,  unless  he 's  gone  out  o' 
the  state  altogether,  an'  when  he  knows  the  boy 's 
at  the  poor-farm  I  kind  o'  think  he  '11  come  and 
claim  him.  Could  you  drive  me  over  to  the  village 
to  see  about  the  coffin,  and  would  you  children  be 
afraid  to  stay  here  alone  for  a  spell  ? "  she  asked, 
turning  to  the  girls. 

"  Afraid  ?  "  they  both  echoed  uncomprehend- 
ingly. 

Lizy  Ann  and  Mr.  Perkins,  perceiving  that  the 
fear  of  a  dead  presence  had  not  entered  the  minds 
of  Rebecca  or  Emma  Jane,  said  nothing,  but  drove 
off  together,  counseling  them  not  to  stray  far  away 
from  the  cabin  and  promising  to  be  back  in  an 
hour. 

There  was  not  a  house  within  sight,  either  look- 
ing up  or  down  the  shady  road,  and  the  two  girls 
stood  hand  in  hand,  watching  the  wagon  out  of 
sight;  then  they  sat  down  quietly  under  a  tree, 
feeling  all  at  once  a  nameless  depression  hanging 
over  their  gay  summer-morning  spirits. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  woods ;  just  the  chirp  of 
a  grasshopper  now  and  then,  or  the  note  of  a  bird, 
or  the  click  of  a  far-distant  mowing-machine. 

13 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"We're  'watching'!"  whispered  Emma  Jane. 
"They  watched  with  Gran'pa  Perkins,  and  there 
was  a  great  funeral  and  two  ministers.  He  left 
two  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank  and  a  store  full 
of  goods,  and  a  paper  thing  you  could  cut  tickets 
off  of  twice  a  year,  and  they  were  just  like  money." 

"  They  watched  with  my  little  sister  Mira,  too," 
said  Rebecca.  "You  remember  when  she  died, 
and  I  went  home  to  Sunnybrook  Farm  ?  It  was 
winter-time,  but  she  was  covered  with  evergreen 
and  white  pinks,  and  there  was  singing." 

"There  won't  be  any  funeral  or  ministers  or 
singing  here,  will  there  ?   Is  n't  that  awful  ? " 

"  I  s'pose  not ;  and  oh,  Emma  Jane,  no  flowers 
either.  We  might  get  those  for  her  if  there  's  no- 
body else  to  do  it." 

"  Would  you  dare  put  them  on  to  her  ? "  asked 
Emma  Jane,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  can't  tell ;  it  makes  me  shiver, 
but,  of  course,  we  could  do  it  if  we  were  the  only 
friends  she  had.  Let 's  look  into  the  cabin  first  and 
be  perfectly  sure  that  there  are  n't  any.  Are  you 
afraid  ? " 

"N-no;  I  guess  not.  I  looked  at  Gran'pa  Per- 
kins, and  he  was  just  the  same  as  ever." 

At  the  door  of  the  hut  Emma  Jane's  courage 
suddenly  departed.  She  held  back  shuddering  and 
refused  either  to  enter  or  look  in.    Rebecca  shud- 

H 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

dered  too,  but  kept  on,  drawn  by  an  insatiable 
curiosity  about  life  and  death,  an  overmastering 
desire  to  know  and  feel  and  understand  the  mys- 
teries of  existence,  a  hunger  for  knowledge  and 
experience  at  all  hazards  and  at  any  cost. 

Emma  Jane  hurried  softly  away  from  the  felt 
terrors  of  the  cabin,  and  after  two  or  three  minutes 
of  utter  silence  Rebecca  issued  from  the  open  door, 
her  sensitive  face  pale  and  woe-begone,  the  ever- 
ready  tears  raining  down  her  cheeks.  She  ran 
toward  the  edge  of  the  wood,  sinking  down  by 
Emma  Jane's  side,  and  covering  her  eyes,  sobbed 
with  excitement :  — 

"  Oh,  Emma  Jane,  she  has  n't  got  a  flower,  and 
she  's  so  tired  and  sad  looking,  as  if  she  'd  been 
hurt  and  hurt  and  never  had  any  good  times,  and 
there 's  a  weeny,  weeny  baby  'side  of  her.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  had  n't  gone  in  !  " 

Emma  Jane  blenched  for  an  instant.  "  Mrs. 
Dennett  never  said  there  was  two  dead  ones  !  Isn't 
that  dreadful  ?  But,"  she  continued,  her  practical 
common  sense  coming  to  the  rescue,  "  you  've  been 
in  once  and  it 's  all  over ;  it  won't  be  so  bad  when 
you  take  in  the  flowers  because  you  '11  be  used  to 
it.  The  goldenrod  has  n't  begun  to  bud,  so  there 's 
nothing  to  pick  but  daisies.  Shall  I  make  a  long 
rope  of  them,  as  I  did  for  the  schoolroom  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Rebecca,  wiping  her  eyes  and  still 
IS 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

sobbing.  "  Yes,  that  's  the  prettiest,  and  if  we 
put  it  all  round  her  like  a  frame  the  undertaker 
could  n't  be  so  cruel  as  to  throw  it  away,  even  if 
she  is  a  pauper,  because  it  will  look  so  beautiful. 
From  what  the  Sunday-school  lessons  say,  she's 
only  asleep  now,  and  when  she  wakes  up  she  '11  be 
in  heaven." 

"  There 's  another  place"  said  Emma  Jane,  in  an 
orthodox  and  sepulchral  whisper,  as  she  took  her 
ever-present  ball  of  crochet  cotton  from  her  pocket 
and  began  to  twine  the  whiteweed  blossoms  into  a 
rope. 

"  Oh,  well ! "  Rebecca  replied  with  the  easy  the- 
ology that  belonged  to  her  temperament.  "They 
simply  could  n't  send  her  down  there  with  that  lit- 
tle weeny  baby.  Who  'd  take  care  of  it  ?  You 
know  page  six  of  the  catechism  says  the  only  com- 
panions of  the  wicked  after  death  are  their  father 
the  devil  and  all  the  other  evil  angels  ;  it  would  n't 
be  any  place  to  bring  up  a  baby." 

"  Whenever  and  wherever  she  wakes  up,  I  hope 
she  won't  know  that  the  big  baby  is  going  to  the 
poor-farm.     I  wonder  where  he  is  ? " 

"  Perhaps  over  to  Mrs.  Dennett's  house.  She 
did  n't  seem  sorry  a  bit,  did  she  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  suppose  she  's  tired  sitting  up  and 
nursing  a  stranger.  Mother  was  n't  sorry  when 
Gran'pa  Perkins  died ;  she  could  n't  be,  for  he  was 

16 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

cross  all  the  time  and  had  to  be  fed  like  a  child. 
Why  are  you  crying  again,  Rebecca  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  can't  tell,  Emma  Jane ! 
Only  I  don't  want  to  die  and  have  no  funeral  or 
singing  and  nobody  sorry  for  me !  I  just  could  n't 
bear  it ! " 

"Neither  could  I,"  Emma  Jane  responded  sym- 
pathetically ;  "  but  p'r'aps  if  we  're  real  good  and  die 
young  before  we  have  to  be  fed,  they  will  be  sorry. 
I  do  wish  you  could  write  some  poetry  for  her  as 
you  did  for  Alice  Robinson's  canary-bird,  only  still 
better,  of  course,  like  that  you  read  me  out  of  your 
thought  book." 

"I  could,  easy  enough,"  exclaimed  Rebecca,  some- 
what consoled  by  the  idea  that  her  rhyming  faculty 
could  be  of  any  use  in  such  an  emergency.  "Though 
I  don't  know  but  it  would  be  kind  of  bold  to  do  it. 
I  'm  all  puzzled  about  how  people  get  to  heaven 
after  they're  buried.  I  can't  understand  it  a  bit ;  but 
if  the  poetry  is  on  her,  what  if  that  should  go,  too  ? 
And  how  could  I  write  anything  good  enough  to  be 
read  out  loud  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  A  little  piece  of  paper  could  n't  get  to  heaven ; 
it  just  could  n't,"  asserted  Emma  Jane  decisively. 
"It  would  be  all  blown  to  pieces  and  dried  up.  And 
nobody  knows  that  the  angels  can  read  writing, 
anyway." 

"They  must  be  as  educated  as  we  are,  and 
17 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

more  so,  too,"  argued  Rebecca.  "They  must  be 
more  than  just  dead  people,  or  else  why  should 
they  have  wings  ?  But  I  '11  go  off  and  write  some- 
thing while  you  finish  the  rope ;  it  's  lucky  you 
brought  your  crochet  cotton  and  I  my  lead  pencil." 
In  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  she  returned  with 
some  lines  written  on  a  scrap  of  brown  wrapping 
paper.  Standing  soberly  by  Emma  Jane,  she  said, 
preparing  to  read  them  aloud :  "  They  're  not  good ; 
I  was  afraid  your  father  'd  come  back  before  I  fin- 
ished, and  the  first  verse  sounds  exactly  like  the 
funeral  hymns  in  the  church  book.  I  could  n't  call 
her  Sally  Win  slow ;  it  did  n't  seem  nice  when  I 
did  n't  know  her  and  she  is  dead,  so  I  thought  if  I 
said  '  friend  '  it  would  show  she  had  somebody  to 
be  sorry. 

"  This  friend  of  ours  has  died  and  gone 
From  us  to  heaven  to  live. 
If  she  has  sinned  against  Thee,  Lord, 
We  pray  Thee,  Lord,  forgive. 

"  Her  husband  runneth  far  away 
And  knoweth  not  she  's  dead. 
Oh,  bring  him  back  —  ere  't  is  too  late  — 
To  mourn  beside  her  bed. 

"  And  if  perchance  it  can't  be  so, 
Be  to  the  children  kind ; 
The  weeny  one  that  goes  with  her, 
The  other  left  behind." 

18 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

"  I  think  that 's  perfectly  elegant !  "  exclaimed 
Emma  Jane,  kissing  Rebecca  fervently.  "  You  are 
the  smartest  girl  in  the  whole  State  of  Maine,  and 
it  sounds  like  a  minister's  prayer.  I  wish  we  could 
save  up  and  buy  a  printing-machine.  Then  I  could 
learn  to  print  what  you  write  and  we  'd  be  partners 
like  father  and  Bill  Moses.  Shall  you  sign  it  with 
your  name  like  we  do  our  school  compositions  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Rebecca  soberly.  "  I  certainly  shan't 
sign  it,  not  knowing  where  it 's  going  or  who  '11 
read  it.  I  shall  just  hide  it  in  the  flowers,  and 
whoever  finds  it  will  guess  that  there  was  n't  any 
minister  or  singing,  or  gravestone,  or  anything,  so 
somebody  just  did  the  best  they  could.  " 

III 

The  tired  mother  with  the  "  weeny  baby"  on  her 
arm  lay  on  a  long  carpenter's  bench,  her  earthly 
journey  over,  and  when  Rebecca  stole  in  and  placed 
the  flowery  garland  all  along  the  edge  of  the  rude 
bier,  death  suddenly  took  on  a  more  gracious  and 
benign  aspect.  It  was  only  a  child's  sympathy  and 
intuition  that  softened  the  rigors  of  the  sad  moment, 
but  poor,  wild  Sal  Winslow,  in  her  frame  of  daisies, 
looked  as  if  she  were  missed  a  little  by  an  un- 
friendly world  ;  while  the  weeny  baby,  whose  heart 
had  fallen  asleep  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  learned 
to  beat,  the  weeny  baby,  with  Emma  Jane's  nosegay 

19 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

of  buttercups  in  its  tiny  wrinkled  hand,  smiled  as 
if  it  might  have  been  loved  and  longed  for  and 
mourned. 

"  We  've  done  all  we  can  now  without  a  minister/' 
whispered  Rebecca.  "  We  could  sing,  '  God  is  ever 
good '  out  of  the  Sunday-school  song-book,  but  I  'm 
afraid  somebody  would  hear  us  and  think  we  were 
gay  and  happy.  —  What 's  that  ? " 

A  strange  sound  broke  the  stillness  :  a  gurgle,  a 
yawn,  a  merry  little  call.  The  two  girls  ran  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  came,  and  there,  on  an  old 
coat,  in  a  clump  of  goldenrod  bushes,  lay  a  child 
just  waking  from  a  refreshing  nap. 

"  It 's  the  other  baby  that  Lizy  Ann  Dennett 
told  about  ! "  cried  Emma  Jane. 

"  Is  n't  he  beautiful !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca. 
"  Come  straight  to  me  !  "  and  she  stretched  out  her 
arms. 

The  child  struggled  to  its  feet,  and  tottered,  wa- 
vering, toward  the  warm  welcome  of  the  voice  and 
eyes.  Rebecca  was  all  mother,  and  her  maternal 
instincts  had  been  well  developed  in  the  large  fam- 
ily in  which  she  was  next  to  the  eldest.  She  had 
always  confessed  that  there  were  perhaps  a  trifle 
too  many  babies  at  Sunnybrook  Farm,  but,  nev- 
ertheless, had  she  ever  heard  it,  she  would  have 
stood  loyally  by  the  Japanese  proverb  :  "  Whether 
brought  forth  upon  the  mountain  or  in  the  field,  it 

20 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

matters  nothing ;  more  than  a  treasure  of  one  thou- 
sand ryo  a  baby  precious  is." 

"  You  darling  thing  !  "  she  crooned,  as  she  caught 
and  lifted  the  child.  "  You  look  just  like  a  Jack-o'- 
lantern." 

The  boy  was  clad  in  a  yellow  cotton  dress,  very 
full  and  stiff.  His  hair  was  of  such  a  bright  gold, 
and  so  sleek  and  shiny,  that  he  looked  like  a  fair, 
smooth  little  pumpkin.  He  had  wide  blue  eyes  full 
of  laughter,  a  neat  little  vertical  nose,  a  neat  little 
horizontal  mouth  with  his  few  neat  little  teeth  show- 
ing very  plainly,  and  on  the  whole  Rebecca's  figure 
of  speech  was  not  so  wide  of  the  mark. 

"  Oh,  Emma  Jane  !  Is  n't  he  too  lovely  to  go  to 
the  poor-farm  ?  If  only  we  were  married  we  could 
keep  him  and  say  nothing  and  nobody  would  know 
the  difference  !  Now  that  the  Simpsons  have  gone 
away  there  is  n't  a  single  baby  in  Riverboro,  and 
only  one  in  Edgewood.  It 's  a  perfect  shame,  but 
I  can't  do  anything ;  you  remember  Aunt  Miranda 
would  n't  let  me  have  the  Simpson  baby  when 
I  wanted  to  borrow  her  just  for  one  rainy  Sun- 
day." 

"  My  mother  won't  keep  him,  so  it's  no  use  to 
ask  her ;  she  says  'most  every  day  she's  glad  we  're 
grown  up,  and  she  thanks  the  Lord  there  was  n't 
but  two  of  us." 

"  And  Mrs.  Peter  Meserve  is  too  nervous,"  Re- 
21 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

becca  went  on,  taking  the  village  houses  in  turn  ; 
"  and  Mrs.  Robinson  is  too  neat." 

"  People  don't  seem  to  like  any  but  their  own 
babies,"  observed  Emma  Jane. 

"  Well,  I  can't  understand  it,"  Rebecca  answered. 
"  A  baby 's  a  baby,  I  should  think,  whose  ever  it 
is !  Miss  Dearborn  is  coming  back  Monday ;  I 
wonder  if  she  'd  like  it  ?  She  has  nothing  to  do  out 
of  school,  and  we  could  borrow  it  all  the  time ! " 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  seem  very  genteel  for  a 
young  lady  like  Miss  Dearborn,  who  '  boards  round,' 
to  take  a  baby  from  place  to  place,"  objected  Emma 
Jane. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  agreed  Rebecca  despondently, 
"but  I  think  if  we  haven't  got  any — any — pri- 
vate babies  in  Riverboro  we  ought  to  have  one  for 
the  town,  and  all  have  a  share  in  it.  We  've  got  a 
town  hall  and  a  town  lamp-post  and  a  town  water- 
ing-trough. Things  are  so  uneven  !  One  house  like 
mine  at  Sunnybrook,  brimful  of  children,  and  the 
very  next  one  empty !  The  only  way  to  fix  them 
right  would  be  to  let  all  the  babies  that  ever  are 
belong  to  all  the  grown-up  people  that  ever  are,  — 
just  divide  them  up,  you  know,  if  they  'd  go  round. 
—  Oh,  I  have  a  thought !  Don't  you  believe  Aunt 
Sarah  Cobb  would  keep  him  ?  She  carries  flowers 
to  the  graveyard  every  little  while,  and  once  she 
took  me  with  her.    There 's  a  marble  cross,  and  it 

22 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

says  :  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Sarah  Ellen,  be- 
loved child  of  Sarah  and  Jeremiah  Cobb,  aged  I J 
months.  Why,  that 's  another  reason ;  Mrs.  Den- 
nett says  this  one  is  seventeen  months.  There  's 
five  of  us  left  at  the  farm  without  me,  but  if  we 
were  only  nearer  to  Riverboro,  how  quick  mother 
would  let  in  one  more  !  " 

"  We  might  see  what  father  thinks,  and  that 
would  settle  it,"  said  Emma  Jane.  "  Father  does  n't 
think  very  sudden,  but  he  thinks  awful  strong.  If 
we  don't  bother  him,  and  find  a  place  ourselves  for 
the  baby,  perhaps  he  '11  be  willing.  He  's  coming 
now ;  I  hear  the  wheels." 

Lizy  Ann  Dennett  volunteered  to  stay  and  per- 
form the  last  rites  with  the  undertaker,  and  Jack-o'- 
lantern,  with  his  slender  wardrobe  tied  in  a  bandanna 
handkerchief,  was  lifted  into  the  wagon  by  the  re- 
luctant Mr.  Perkins,  and  jubilantly  held  by  Rebecca 
in  her  lap.  Mr.  Perkins  drove  off  as  speedily  as 
possible,  being  heartily  sick  of  the  whole  affair,  and 
thinking  wisely  that  the  little  girls  had  already  seen 
and  heard  more  than  enough  of  the  seamy  side  of 
life  that  morning. 

Discussion  concerning  Jack-o'-lantern's  future 
was  prudently  deferred  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  then  Mr.  Perkins  was  mercilessly  pelted  with 
arguments  against  the  choice  of  the  poor-farm  as  a 
place  of  residence  for  a  baby. 

23 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"  His  father  is  sure  to  come  back  some  time, 
Mr.  Perkins,"  urged  Rebecca.  "He  couldn't  leave 
this  beautiful  thing  forever ;  and  if  Emma  Jane  and 
I  can  persuade  Mrs.  Cobb  to  keep  him  a  little 
while,  would  you  care  ? " 

No  ;  on  reflection  Mr.  Perkins  did  not  care.  He 
merely  wanted  a  quiet  life  and  enough  time  left 
over  from  the  public  service  to  attend  to  his  black- 
smith's shop  ;  so  instead  of  going  home  over  the 
same  road  by  which  they  came  he  crossed  the 
bridge  into  Edgewood  and  dropped  the  children  at 
the  long  lane  which  led  to  the  Cobb  house. 

Mrs.  Cobb,  "  Aunt  Sarah  "  to  the  whole  village, 
sat  by  the  window  looking  for  Uncle  Jerry,  who 
would  soon  be  seen  driving  the  noon  stage  to  the 
post-office  over  the  hill.  She  always  had  an  eye  out 
for  Rebecca,  too,  for  ever  since  the  child  had  been 
a  passenger  on  Mr.  Cobb's  stagecoach,  making  the 
eventful  trip  from  her  home  farm  to  the  brick  house 
in  Riverboro  in  his  company,  she  had  been  a  con- 
stant visitor  and  the  joy  of  the  quiet  household. 
Emma  Jane,  too,  was  a  well-known  figure  in  the 
lane,  but  the  strange  baby  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
surprise  —  a  surprise  somewhat  modified  by  the  fact 
that  Rebecca  was  a  dramatic  personage  and  more 
liable  to  appear  in  conjunction  with  curious  out- 
riders, comrades,  and  retainers  than  the  ordinary 
Riverboro  child.     She  had  run  away  from  the  too 

24 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

stern  discipline  of  the  brick  house  on  one  occasion, 
and  had  been  persuaded  to  return  by  Uncle  Jerry. 
She  had  escorted  a  wandering  organ-grinder  to 
their  door  and  begged  a  lodging  for  him  on  a  rainy 
night ;  so  on  the  whole  there  was  nothing  amazing 
about  the  coming  procession. 

The  little  party  toiled  up  to  the  hospitable  door, 
and  Mrs.  Cobb  came  out  to  meet  them. 

Rebecca  was  spokesman.  Emma  Jane's  talent 
did  not  lie  in  eloquent  speech,  but  it  would  have 
been  a  valiant  and  a  fluent  child  indeed  who  could 
have  usurped  Rebecca's  privileges  and  tendencies 
in  this  direction,  language  being  her  native  ele- 
ment, and  words  of  assorted  sizes  springing  spon- 
taneously to  her  lips. 

"Aunt  Sarah,  dear,"  she  said,  plumping  Jack-o'- 
lantern  down  on  the  grass  as  she  pulled  his  dress 
over  his  feet  and  smoothed  his  hair  becomingly, 
"  will  you  please  not  say  a  word  till  I  get  through 
—  as  it 's  very  important  you  should  know  every- 
thing before  you  answer  yes  or  no  ?  This  is  a 
baby  named  Jacky  Winslow,  and  I  think  he  looks 
like  a  Jack-o'-lantern.  His  mother  has  just  died 
over  to  North  Riverboro,  all  alone,  excepting  for 
Mrs.  Lizy  Ann  Dennett,  and  there  was  another 
little  weeny  baby  that  died  with  her,  and  Emma 
Jane  and  I  put  flowers  around  them  and  did  the 
best  we  could.   The  father  —  that 's  John  Winslow 

25 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

—  quarreled  with  the  mother  —  that  was  Sal  Perry 
on  the  Moderation  Road  —  and  ran  away  and  left 
her.  So  he  does  n't  know  his  wife  and  the  weeny 
baby  are  dead.  And  the  town  has  got  to  bury 
them  because  they  can't  find  the  father  right  off 
quick,  and  Jacky  has  got  to  go  to  the  poor-farm 
this  afternoon.  And  it  seems  an  awful  shame  to 
take  him  up  to  that  lonesome  place  with  those  old 
people  that  can't  amuse  him,  and  if  Emma  Jane 
and  Alice  Robinson  and  I  take  'most  all  the  care 
of  him  we  thought  perhaps  you  and  Uncle  Jerry 
would  keep  him  just  for  a  little  while.  You  've  got 
a  cow  and  a  turn-up  bedstead,  you  know,"  she  hur- 
ried on  insinuatingly,  "and  there  's  hardly  any  plea- 
sure as  cheap  as  more  babies  where  there  's  ever 
been  any  before,  for  baby  carriages  and  trundle- 
beds  and  cradles  don't  wear  out,  and  there  's  always 
clothes  left  over  from  the  old  baby  to  begin  the 
new  one  on.  Of  course,  we  can  collect  enough 
things  to  start  Jacky,  so  he  won't  be  much  trouble 
or  expense ;  and  anyway,  he  's  past  the  most 
troublesome  age  and  you  won't  have  to  be  up 
nights  with  him,  and  he  is  n't  afraid  of  anybody  or 
anything,  as  you  can  see  by  his  just  sitting  there 
laughing  and  sucking  his  thumb,  though  he  does  n't 
know  what  's  going  to  become  of  him.  And  he  's 
just  seventeen  months  old  like  dear  little  Sarah 
Ellen  in  the  graveyard,  and  we  thought  we  ought 
26 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

te  give  you  the  refusal  of  him  before  he  goes  to 
the  poor-farm,  and  what  do  you  think  about  it  ? 
Because  it 's  near  my  dinner-time  and  Aunt  Mi- 
randa will  keep  me  in  the  whole  afternoon  if  I  'm 
late,  and  I  've  got  to  finish  weeding  the  hollyhock 
bed  before  sundown." 

IV 

Mrs.  Cobb  had  enjoyed  a  considerable  period  of 
reflection  during  this  monologue,  and  Jacky  had 
not  used  the  time  unwisely,  offering  several  un- 
conscious arguments  and  suggestions  to  the  matter 
under  discussion  ;  lurching  over  on  the  greensward 
and  righting  himself  with  a  chuckle,  kicking  his 
bare  feet  about  in  delight  at  the  sunshine  and 
groping  for  his  toes  with  arms  too  short  to  reach 
them,  the  movement  involving  an  entire  upsetting 
of  equilibrium  followed  by  mope  chuckles. 

Coming  down  the  last  of  the  stone  steps,  Sarah 
Ellen's  mother  regarded  the  baby  with  interest  and 
sympathy. 

"  Poor  little  mite  !  "  she  said ;  '■'  that  does  n't 
know  what  he  's  lost  and  what 's  going  to  happen 
to  him.  Seems  to  me  we  might  keep  him  a  spell 
till  we  're  sure  his  father  's  deserted  him  for  good. 
Want  to  come  to  Aunt  Sarah,  baby  ? " 

Jack-o'-lantern  turned  from  Rebecca  and  Emma 
Jane  and  regarded  the  kind  face  gravely  ;  then  he 

27 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

held  out  both  his  hands  and  Mrs.  Cobb,  stooping, 
gathered  him  like  a  harvest.  Being  lifted  into  her 
arms,  he  at  once  tore  her  spectacles  from  her  nose 
and  laughed  aloud.  Taking  them  from  him  gently, 
she  put  them  on  again,  and  set  him  in  the  cush- 
ioned rocking-chair  under  the  lilac  bushes  beside 
the  steps.  Then  she  took  one  of  his  soft  hands  in 
hers  and  patted  it,  and  fluttered  her  fingers  like 
birds  before  his  eyes,  and  snapped  them  like  casta- 
nets, remembering  all  the  arts  she  had  lavished 
upon  "  Sarah  Ellen,  aged  seventeen  months,"  years 
and  years  ago. 

Motherless  baby  and  babyless  mother, 
Bring  them  together  to  love  one  another. 

Rebecca  knew  nothing  of  this  couplet,  but  she 
saw  clearly  enough  that  her  case  was  won. 

"The  boy  must  be  hungry;  when  was  he  fed 
last  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cobb.  "  Just  stay  a  second 
longer  while  I  get  him  some  morning's  milk ;  then 
you  run  home  to  your  dinners  and  I  '11  speak  to 
Mr.  Cobb  this  afternoon.  Of  course,  we  can  keep 
the  baby  for  a  week  or  two  till  we  see  what  hap- 
pens. Land  !  he  ain't  goin'  to  be  any  more  trouble 
than  a  wax  doll !  I  guess  he  ain't  been  used  to 
much  attention,  and  that  kind  's  always  the  easiest 
to  take  care  of." 

At  six  o'clock  that  evening  Rebecca  and  Emma 
Jane  flew  up  the  hill  and  down  the  lane  again,  wav- 

28 


GREAT,    THOUGH    FRIENDLY,    WAS    THE    RIVALRY 
BETWEEN    THEM 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

ing  their  hands  to  the  dear  old  couple  who  were 
waiting  for  them  in  the  usual  place,  the  back  piazza 
where  they  had  sat  so  many  summers  in  a  blessed 
companionship  never  marred  by  an  unloving  word. 

"Where's  Jacky?"  called  Rebecca  breathlessly, 
her  voice  always  outrunning  her  feet. 

"  Go  up  to  my  chamber,  both  of  you,  if  you  want 
to  see,"  smiled  Mrs.  Cobb,  "  only  don't  wake  him 
up."    ' 

The  girls  went  softly  up  the  stairs  into  Aunt 
Sarah's  room.  There,  in  the  turn-up  bedstead  that 
had  been  so  long  empty,  slept  Jack-o'-lantern,  in 
blissful  unconsciousness  of  the  doom  he  had  so 
lately  escaped.  His  nightgown  and  pillow-case  were 
clean  and  fragrant  with  lavender,  but  they  were 
both  as  yellow  as  saffron,  for  they  had  belonged  to 
Sarah  Ellen.  ' 

"  I  wish  his  mother  could  see  him !  "  whispered 
Emma  Jane. 

"  You  can't  tell ;  it 's  all  puzzly  about  heaven, 
and  perhaps  she  does,"  said  Rebecca,  as  they  turned 
reluctantly  from  the  fascinating  scene  and  stole 
down  to  the  piazza. 

It  was  a  beautiful  and  a  happy  summer  that  year, 
and  every  day  of  it  was  filled  with  blissful  plays 
and  still  more  blissful  duties.  On  the  Monday 
after  Jack-o'-lantern' s  arrival  in  Edgewood  Rebecca 

29 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

founded  the  Riverboro  Aunts  Association.  The 
Aunts  were  Rebecca,  Emma  Jane,  Alice  Robin- 
son, and  Minnie  Smellie,  and  each  of  the  first  three 
promised  to  labor  for  and  amuse  the  visiting  baby 
for  two  days  a  week,  Minnie  Smellie,  who  lived  at 
some  distance  from  the  Cobbs,  making  herself  re- 
sponsible for  Saturday  afternoons. 

Minnie  Smellie  was  not  a  general  favorite  among 
the  Riverboro  girls,  and  it  was  only  in  an  unpre- 
cedented burst  of  magnanimity  that  they  admitted 
her  into  the  rites  of  fellowship,  Rebecca  hugging 
herself  secretly  at  the  thought,  that  as  Minnie  gave 
only  the  leisure  time  of  one  day  a  week,  she  could 
not  be  called  a  "full  "  Aunt.  There  had  been  long 
and  bitter  feuds  between  the  two  children  during 
Rebecca's  first  summer  in  Riverboro,  but  since 
Mrs.  Smellie  had  told  her  daughter  that  one  more 
quarrel  would  invite  a  punishment  so  terrible  that 
it  could  only  be  hinted  at  vaguely,  and  Miss  Mi- 
randa Sawyer  had  remarked  that  any  niece  of  hers 
who  could  n't  get  along  peaceably  with  the  neigh- 
bors had  better  go  back  to  the  seclusion  of  a  farm 
where  there  were  n't  any,  hostilities  had  been 
veiled,  and  a  suave  and  diplomatic  relationship  had 
replaced  the  former  one,  which  had  been  wholly 
primitive,  direct,  and  barbaric.  Still,  whenever 
Minnie  Smellie,  flaxed-haired,  pink-nosed,  and  fer- 
ret-eyed, indulged  in  fluent  conversation,  Rebecca, 

30 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

remembering  the  old  fairy  story,  could  always  see 
toads  hopping  out  of  her  mouth.  It  was  really  very 
unpleasant,  because  Minnie  could  never  see  them 
herself ;  and  what  was  more  amazing,  Emma  Jane 
perceived  nothing  of  the  sort,  being  almost  as 
blind,  too,  to  the  diamonds  that  fell  continually 
from  Rebecca's  lips ;  but  Emma  Jane's  strong 
point  was  not  her  imagination. 

A  shaky  perambulator  was  found  in  Mrs.  Per- 
kins's wonderful  attic ;  shoes  and  stockings  were 
furnished  by  Mrs.  Robinson;  Miss  Jane  Sawyer 
knitted  a  blanket  and  some  shirts ;  Thirza  Me- 
serve,  though  too  young  for  an  Aunt,  coaxed  from 
her  mother  some  dresses  and  nightgowns,  and  was 
presented  with  a  green  paper  certificate  allowing 
her  to  wheel  Jacky  up  and  down  the  road  for  an 
hour  under  the  superintendence  of  a  full  Aunt. 
Each  girl,  under  the  constitution  of  the  associa- 
tion, could  call  Jacky  "  hers  "  for  two  days  in  the 
week,  and  great,  though  friendly,  was  th£  rivalry 
between  them,  as  they  washed,  ironed,  and  sewed 
for  their  adored  nephew. 

If  Mrs.  Cobb  had  not  been  the  most  amiable 
woman  in  the  world  she  might  have  had  difficulty 
in  managing  the  Aunts,  but  she  always  had  Jacky 
to  herself  the  earlier  part  of  the  day  and  after  dusk 
at  night. 

Meanwhile  Jack-o'-lantern  grew  healthier  and 
31 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

heartier  and  jollier  as  the  weeks  slipped  away. 
Uncle  Jerry  joined  the  little  company  of  worshipers 
and  slaves,  and  one  fear  alone  stirred  in  all  their 
hearts ;  not,  as  a  sensible  and  practical  person 
might  imagine,  the  fear  that  the  recreant  father 
might  never  return  to  claim  his  child,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  that  he  might  do  so ! 

October  came  at  length  with  its  cheery  days  and 
frosty  nights,  its  glory  of  crimson  leaves  and  its 
golden  harvest  of  pumpkins  and  ripened  corn.  Re- 
becca had  been  down  by  the  Edgewood  side  of  the 
river  and  had  come  up  across  the  pastures  for  a 
good-night  play  with  Jacky.  Her  literary  labors 
had  been  somewhat  interrupted  by  the  joys  and 
responsibilities  of  vice-motherhood,  and  the  thought 
book  was  less  frequently  drawn  from  its  hiding 
place  under  the  old  haymow  in  the  barn  chamber. 

Mrs.  Cobb  stood  behind  the  screen  door  with 
her  face  pressed  against  the  wire  netting,  and  Re- 
becca could  see  that  she  was  wiping  her  eyes. 

All  at  once  the  child's  heart  gave  one  prophetic 
throb  and  then  stood  still.  She  was  like  a  harp 
that  vibrated  with  every  wind  of  emotion,  whether 
from  another's  grief  or  her  own. 

She  looked  down  the  lane,  around  the  curve  of 
the  stone  wall  red  with  woodbine,  the  lane  that 
would  meet  the  stage  road  to  the  station.  There, 
just  mounting  the  crown  of  the  hill  and  about  to 

32 


JACK   O'  LANTERN 

disappear  on  the  other  side,  strode  a  stranger  man, 
big  and  tall,  with  a  crop  of  reddish  curly  hair  show- 
ing from  under  his  straw  hat.  A  woman  walked  by 
his  side,  and  perched  on  his  shoulder,  wearing  his 
most  radiant  and  triumphant  mien,  as  joyous  in 
leaving  Edgewood  as  he  had  been  during  every 
hour  of  his  sojourn  there  —  rode  Jack-o'-lantern  ! 

Rebecca  gave  a  cry  in  which  maternal  longing 
and  helpless,  hopeless  jealousy  strove  for  suprem- 
acy. Then,  with  an  impetuous  movement  she  started 
to  run  after  the  disappearing  trio. 

Mrs.  Cobb  opened  the  door  hastily,  calling  after 
her,  "  Rebecca,  Rebecca,  come  back  here !  You 
must  n't  follow  where  you  have  n't  any  right  to 
go.  If  there  'd  been  anything  to  say  or  do,  I  'd  'a' 
done  it."  ' 

"  He  's  mine  !  he 's  mine  !  "  stormed  Rebecca. 
"  At  least  he  's  yours  and  mine  !  " 

"  He  's  his  father's  first  of  all,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Cobb  ;  "  don't  let 's  forget  that ;  and  we  'd  ought  to 
be  glad  an'  grateful  that  John  Winslow  's  come  to 
his  senses  an'  remembers  he  's  brought  a  child  into 
the  world  and  ought  to  take  care  of  it.  Our  loss 
is  his  gain  and  it  may  make  a  man  of  him.  Come 
in,  and  we  '11  put  things  away  all  neat  before  your 
Uncle  Jerry  gets  home." 

Rebecca  sank  in  a  pitiful  little  heap  on  Mrs. 
Cobb's  bedroom  floor  and  sobbed  her  heart  out. 

33 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Sarah,  where  shall  we  get  'another 
Jack-o'-lantern,  and  how  shall  I  break  it  to  Emma 
Jane  ?  What  if  his  father  does  n't  love  him,  and 
what  if  he  forgets  to  strain  the  milk  or  lets  him  go 
without  his  nap  ?  That 's  the  worst  of  babies  that 
are  n't  private  —  you  have  to  part  with  them  sooner 
or  later ! " 

"  Sometimes  you  have  to  part  with  your  own, 
too,"  said  Mrs.  Cobb  sadly  ;  and  though  there  were 
lines  of  sadness  in  her  face  there  was  neither  rebel- 
lion nor  repining,  as  she  folded  up  the  sides  of  the 
turn-up  bedstead  preparatory  to  banishing  it  a  sec- 
ond time  to  the  attic.  "  I  shall  miss  Sarah  Ellen 
now  more  'n  ever.  Still,  Rebecca,  we  must  n't  feel 
to  complain.  It 's  the  Lord  that  giveth  and  the 
Lord  that  taketh  away :  Blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord." 


Second  Chronicle 
DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 


ABIJAH    FLAGG    was    driving    over    to 
Wareham  on   an   errand   for   old   Squire 
Winship,    whose   general   chore-boy   and 
farmer's  assistant  he  had  been  for  some  years. 

He  passed  Emma  Jane  Perkins's  house  slowly, 
as  he  always  did.  She  was  only  a  little  girl  of  thir- 
teen and  he  a  boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  but  some- 
how, for  no  particular  reason,  he  liked  to  see  the 
sun  shine  on  her  thick  braids  of  reddish-brown  hair. 
He  admired  her  china-blue  eyes  too,  and  her  ami- 
able, friendly  expression.  He  was  quite  alone  in 
the  world,  and  he  always  thought  that  if  he  had 
anybody  belonging  to  him  he  would  rather  have  a 
sister  like  Emma  Jane  Perkins  than  anything  else 
within  the  power  of  Providence  to  bestow.  When 
she  herself  suggested  this  relationship  a  few  years 
later  he  cast  it  aside  with  scorn,  having  changed 
his  mind  in  the  interval  —  but  that  story  belongs 
to  another  time  and  place. 

Emma  Jane  was  not  to  be  seen  in  garden,  field, 
or  at  the  window,  and  Abijah  turned  his  gaze  to 

35 


NEW   CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 


the  large  brick  house  that  came  next  on'  the  other 
side  of  the  quiet  village  street.  It  might  have  been 
closed  for  a  funeral.  Neither  Miss  Miranda  nor 
Miss  Jane  Sawyer  sat  at  their  respective  windows 
knitting,  nor  was  Rebecca  Randall's  gypsy  face  to 
be  discerned.  Ordinarily  that  will-o'-the-wispish 
little  person  could  be  seen,  heard,  or  felt  wherever 
she  was. 

"  The  village  must  be  abed,  I  guess,"  mused 
Abijah,  as  he  neared  the  Robinsons'  yellow  cot- 
tage, where  all  the  blinds  were  closed  and  no  sign 
of  life  showed  on  porch  or  in  shed.  "  No,  't  ain't, 
neither,"  he  thought  again,  as  his  horse  crept  cau- 
tiously down  the  hill,  for  from  the  direction  of  the 
Robinsons'  barn  chamber  there  floated  out  into  the 
air  certain  burning  sentiments  set  to  the  tune  of 
"  Antioch."  The  words,  to  a  lad  brought  up  in  the 
orthodox  faith,  were  quite  distinguishable  :  — 


ffe» 


fU- 


"  Daugh  -  ter  of  Zi  -  on,  from  the  dust,  Ex  -  alt  thy  fall  -  en  head  I " 

Even  the  most  religious  youth  is  stronger  on  first 
lines  than  others,  but  Abijah  pulled  up  his  horse 
and  waited  till  he  caught  another  familiar  verse, 
beginning  :  — 

"  Rebuild  thy  walls,  thy  bounds  enlarge, 
And  send  thy  heralds  forth." 

36 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

"  That  's  Rebecca  carrying  the  air,  and  I  can 
hear  Emma  Jane's  alto." 


^m 


Sill 


i 


ft 


ialp 


=r 


"Say      to      the     North,    Give    up     thy     charge, 


^1 

-m— ■ 


f- 


h— N— N 


i=Ei5j^E§re§^^^P£ 


And  hold  not  back,  O  South,  And  hold  not  back,  0  South,"  etc. 

"  Land !  ain't  they  smart,  seesawin'  up  and  down 
in  that  part  they  learnt  in  singin'  school !  I  wonder 
what  they  're  actin'  out,  singin'  hymn-tunes  up  in 
the  barn  chamber  ?  Some  o'  Rebecca's  doin's,  I  '11 
be  bound  !   Git  dap,  Aleck  !  "  ' 

Aleck  pursued  his  serene  and  steady  trot  up 
the  hills  on  the  Edgewood  side  of  the  river,  till  at 
length  he  approached  the  green  Common  where 
the  old  Tory  Hill  meeting-house  stood,  its  white 
paint  and  green  blinds  showing  fair  and  pleasant 
in  the  afternoon  sun.  Both  doors  were  open,  and 
as  Abijah  turned  into  the  Wareham  road  the  church 
melodeon  pealed  out  the  opening  bars  of  the  Mis- 
sionary Hymn,  and  presently  a  score  of  voices  sent 
the  good  old  tune  from  the  choir-loft  out  to  the 
dusty  road  :  — 

"  Shall  we  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high, 

37 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Shall  we  to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? " 

"  Land  ! "  exclaimed  Abijah  under  his  breath. 
"  They  're  at  it  up  here,  too  !  That  explains  it  all. 
There  's  a  missionary  meeting  at  the  church,  and 
the  girls  wa'n't  allowed  to  come  so  they  held  one 
o'  their  own,  and  I  bate  ye  it 's  the  liveliest  of  the 
two." 

Abijah  Flagg's  shrewd  Yankee  guesses  were  not 
far  from  the  truth,  though  he  was  not  in  posses- 
sion of  all  the  facts.  It  will  be  remembered  by 
those  who  have  been  in  the  way  of  hearing  Re- 
becca's experiences  in  Riverboro,  that  the  Rev.  and 
Mrs.  Burch,  returned  missionaries  from  the  Far 
East,  together  with  some  of  their  children,  —  "  all 
born  under  Syrian  skies,"  as  they  always  explained 
to  interested  inquirers,  —  spent  a  day  or  two  at 
the  brick  house,  and  gave  parlor  meetings  in  native 
costume. 

These  visitors,  coming  straight  from  foreign 
lands  to  the  little  Maine  village,  brought  with  them 
a  nameless  enchantment  to  the  children,  and  espe- 
cially to  Rebecca,  whose  imagination  always  kindled 
easily.  The  romance  of  that  visit  had  never  died 
in  her  heart,  and  among  the  many  careers  that 
dazzled  her  youthful  vision  was  that  of  converting 
such  Syrian  heathen  as  might  continue  in  idol 
worship  after  the  Burettes'  efforts  in  their  behalf 
•    38 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

had  ceased.  She  thought  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
she  might  be  suitably  equipped  for  storming  some 
minor  citadel  of  Mohammedanism  ;  and  Mrs.  Burch 
had  encouraged  her  in  the  idea,  not,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  because  Rebecca  showed  any  surplus  of 
virtue  or  Christian  grace,  but  because  her  gift  of 
language,  her  tact  and  sympathy,  and  her  musical 
talent  seemed  to  fit  her  for  the  work. 

It  chanced  that  the  quarterly  meeting  of  the 
Maine  Missionary  Society  had  been  appointed  just 
at  the  time  when  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Burch  to  Miss 
Jane  Sawyer  suggested  that  Rebecca  should  form 
a  children's  branch  in  Riverboro.  Mrs.  Burch's 
real  idea  was  that  the  young  people  should  save 
their  pennies  and  divert  a  gentle'  stream  of  finan- 
cial aid  into  the  parent  fund,  thus  learning  early 
in  life  to  be  useful  in  such  work,  either  at  home  or 
abroad. 

The  girls  themselves,  however,  read  into  her  let- 
ter no  such  modest  participation  in  the  conversion 
of  the  world,  and  wishing  to  effect  an  organization 
without  delay,  they  chose  an  afternoon  when  every 
house  in  the  village  was  vacant,  and  seized  upon  the 
Robinsons'  barn  chamber  as  the  place  of  meeting. 

Rebecca,  Alice  Robinson,  Emma  Jane  Perkins, 
Candace  Milliken,  and  Persis  Watson,  each  with 
her  hymn-book,  had  climbed  the  ladder  leading  to 
the  haymow  a  half-hour  before  Abijah  Flagg  had 

39  . 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

heard  the  strains  of  "  Daughter  of  Zion  "  floating 
out  to  the  road.  Rebecca,  being  an  executive  per- 
son, had  carried,  besides  her  hymn-book,  a  silver 
call-bell  and  pencil  and  paper.  An  animated  dis- 
cussion regarding  one  of  two  names  for  the  society, 
The  Junior  Heralds  or  The  Daughters  of  Zion, 
had  resulted  in  a  unanimous  vote  for  the  latter, 
and  Rebecca  had  been  elected  president  at  an 
early  stage  of  the  meeting.  She  had  modestly  sug- 
gested that  Alice  Robinson,  as  the  granddaughter 
of  a  missionary  to  China,  would  be  much  more 
eligible. 

"No,"  said  Alice,  with  entire  good  nature,  "who- 
ever is  elected  president,  you  will  be,  Rebecca  — 
you  're  that  kind  —  so  you  might  as  well  have  the 
honor;  I  'd  just  as  lieves  be  secretary,  anyway." 

"  If  you  should  want  me  to  be  treasurer,  I  could 
be,  as  well  as  not,"  said  Persis  Watson  suggestively; 
"for  you  know  my  father  keeps  china  banks  at 
his  store  —  ones  that  will  hold  as  much  as  two  dol- 
lars if  you  will  let  them.  I  think  he  'd  give  us  one 
if  I  happen  to  be  treasurer." 

The  three  principal  officers  were  thus  elected  at 
one  fell  swoop  and  with  an  entire  absence  of  that 
red  tape  which  commonly  renders  organization  so 
tiresome,  Candace  Milliken  suggesting  that  per- 
haps she  'd  better  be  vice-president,  as  Emma  Jane 
Perkins  was  always  so  bashful. 

40 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

"  We  ought  to  have  more  members,"  she  re- 
minded the  other  girls,  "but  if  we  had  invited 
them  the  first  day  they  'd  have  all  wanted  to  be 
officers,  especially  Minnie  Smellie,  so  it  's  just  as 
well  not  to  ask  them  till  another  time.  Is  Thirza 
Meserve  too  little  to  join  ? " 

"I  can't  think  why  anybody  named  Meserve 
should  have  called  a  baby  Thirza,"  said  Rebecca, 
somewhat  out  of  order,  though  the  meeting  was 
carried  on  with  small  recognition  of  parliamentary 
laws.    "  It  always  makes  me  want  to  say :  — 

Thirza  Meserver, 
Heaven  preserve  her ! 

or 

Thirza  Meserver        ' 
Do  we  deserve  her  ? 

She  's  little,  but  she  's  sweet,  and  absolutely  with- 
out guile.    I  think  we  ought  to  have  her." 

"Is  'guile'  the  same  as  guilt?"  inquired  Emma 
Jane  Perkins. 

"  Yes,"  the  president  answered  ;  "  exactly  the 
same,  except  one  is  written  and  the  other  spoken 
language."  (Rebecca  was  rather  good  at  imbibing 
information,  and  a  master  hand  at  imparting  it !) 
"  Written  language  is  for  poems  and  graduations 
and  occasions  like  this  —  kind  of  like  a  best  Sun- 
day-go-to-meeting dress  that  you  would  n't  like  to 
go  blueberrying  in  for  fear  of  getting  it  spotted." 
4.1 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"I  'd  just  as  lieves  get  'guile'  spotted  as  not," 
affirmed  the  unimaginative  Emma  Jane.  "  I  think 
it  's  an  awful  foolish  word  ;  but  now  we  're  all 
named  and  our  officers  elected,  what  do  we  do 
first  ?  It  's  easy  enough  for  Mary  and  Martha 
Burch ;  they  just  play  at  missionarying  because 
their  folks  work  at  it,  same  as  Living  and  I  used  to 
make  believe  be  blacksmiths  when  we  were  little." 

"  It  must  be  nicer  missionarying  in  those  foreign 
places,"  said  Persis,  "because  on  'Afric's  shores 
and  India's  plains  and  other  spots  where  Satan 
reigns '  (that  's  father's  favorite  hymn)  there 's 
always  a  heathen  bowing  down  to  wood  and  stone. 
You  can  take  away  his  idols  if  he  '11  let  you  and 
give  him  a  Bible  and  the  beginning  's  all  made.  But 
who  '11  we  begin  on  ?   Jethro  Small  ? " 

"Oh,  he's  entirely  too  dirty,  and  foolish  be- 
sides ! "  exclaimed  Candace.  "  Why  not  Ethan 
Hunt  ?    He  swears  dreadfully." 

"  He  lives  on  nuts  and  is  a  hermit,  and  it 's  a 
mile  to  his  camp  through  the  thick  woods ;  my 
mother '11  never  let  me  go  there,"  objected  Alice. 
"There  's  Uncle  Tut  Judson." 

"  He  's  too  old ;  he 's  most  a  hundred  and  deaf 
as  a  post,"  complained  Emma  Jane.  "  Besides,  his 
married  daughter  is  a  Sabbath-school  teacher  — 
why  does  n't  she  teach  him  to  behave  ?  I  can't 
think  of  anybody  just  right  to  start  on  !  " 

42 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Emma  Jane,"  and  Re- 
becca's tone  had  a  tinge  of  reproof  in  it.  "  We  are 
a  copperated  body  named  the  Daughters  of  Zion, 
and,  of  course,  we  've  got  to  find  something  to  do. 
Foreigners  are  the  easiest ;  there  's  a  Scotch  fam- 
ily at  North  Riverboro,  an  English  one  in  Edge- 
wood,  and  one  Cuban  man  at  Milliken's  Mills." 

"  Have  n't  foreigners  got  any  religion  of  their 
own  ? "  inquired  Persis  curiously. 

"  Ye-es,  I  s'pose  so  ;  kind  of  a  one  ;  but  foreign- 
ers' religions  are  never  right  —  ours  is  the  only 
good  one."  This  was  from  Candace,  the  deacon's 
daughter. 

"  I  do  think  it  must  be  dreadful,  being  bom  with 
a  religion  and  growing  up  with  it,  and  then  finding 
out  it 's  no  use  and  all  your  time  wasted ! "  Here 
Rebecca  sighed,  chewed  a  straw,  and  looked  trou- 
bled. 

"  Well,  that 's  your  punishment  for  being  a  hea- 
then," retorted  Candace,  who  had  been  brought  up 
strictly. 

"  But  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  how  you  can 
help  being  a  heathen  if  you  're  born  in  Africa," 
persisted  Persis,  who  was  well  named. 

"  You  can't."  Rebecca  was  clear  on  this  point. 
"I  had  that  all  out  with  Mrs.  Burch  when  she  was 
visiting  Aunt  Miranda.  She  says  they  can't  help 
being  heathen,  but  if  there 's  a  single  mission  sta- 

43 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

tion  in  the  whole  of  Africa,  they  're  accountable  if 
they  don't  go  there  and  get  saved." 

"Are  there  plenty  of  stages  and  railroads?" 
asked  Alice ;  "  because  there  must  be  dreadfully 
long  distances,  and  what  if  they  could  n't  pay  the 
fare?" 

"That  part  of  it  is  so  dreadfully  puzzly  we 
mustn't  talk  about  it,  please,"  said  Rebecca,  her 
sensitive  face  quivering  with  the  force  of  the  prob- 
lem. Poor  little  soul !  She  did  not  realize  that  her 
superiors  in  age  and  intellect  had  spent  many  a 
sleepless  night  over  that  same  "  accountability  of 
the  heathen." 

"  It 's  too  bad  the  Simpsons  have  moved  away," 
said  Candace.  "  It 's  so  seldom  you  can  find  a  real 
big  wicked  family  like  that  to  save,  with  only  Clara 
Belle  and  Susan  good  in  it." 

"And  numbers  count  for  so  much,"  continued 
Alice.  "  My  grandmother  says  if  missionaries  can't 
convert  about  so  many  in  a  year  the  Board  advises 
them  to  come  back  to  America  and  take  up  some 
other  work." 

"  I  know,"  Rebecca  corroborated ;  "and  it 's  the 
same  with  revivalists.  At  the  Centennial  picnic  at 
North  Riverboro,  a  revivalist  sat  opposite  to  Mr. 
Ladd  and  Aunt  Jane  and  me,  and  he  was  telling 
about  his  wonderful  success  in  Bangor  last  winter. 
He  'd  converted  a  hundred  and  thirty  in  a  month, 

44 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

he  said,  or  about  four  and  a  third  a  day.  I  had 
just  finished  fractions,  so  I  asked  Mr.  Ladd  how 
the  third  of  a  man  could  be  converted.  He  laughed 
and  said  it  was  just  the  other  way;  that  the  man 
was  a  third  converted.  Then  he  explained  that  if 
you  were  trying  to  convince  a  person  of  his  sin  on 
a  Monday,  and  could  n't  quite  finish  by  sundown, 
perhaps  you  would  n't  want  to  sit  up  all  night  with 
him,  and  perhaps  he  would  n't  want  you  to ;  so  you  'd 
begin  again  on  Tuesday,  and  you  could  n't  say  just 
which  day  he  was  converted,  because  it  would  be 
two  thirds  on  Monday  and  one  third  on  Tuesday." 

"  Mr.  Ladd  is  always  making  fun,  and  the  Board 
could  n't  expect  any  great  things  of  us  girls,  new 
beginners,"  suggested  Emma  Jane,  who  was  being 
constantly  warned  against  tautology  by  her  teacher. 
"  I  think  it 's  awful  rude,  anyway,  to  go  right  out 
and  try  to  convert  your  neighbors  ;  but  if  you  bor- 
row a  horse  and  go  to  Edgewood  Lower  Corner,  or 
Milliken's  Mills,  I  s'pose  that  makes  it  Foreign 
Missions." 

"  Would  we  each  go  alone  or  wait  upon  them  with 
a  committee,  as  they  did  when  they  asked  Deacon 
Tuttle  for  a  contribution  for  the  new  hearse  ? "  asked 
Persis. 

"  Oh  !  we  must  go  alone,"  decided  Rebecca ;  "  it 
would  be  much  more  refined  and  delicate.  Aunt 
Miranda  says  that  one  man  alone  could  never  get 
45 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

a  subscription  from  Deacon  Tuttle,  and  that's  the 
reason  they  sent  a  committee.  But  it  seems  to  me 
Mrs.  Burch  could  n't  mean  for  us  to  try  and  con- 
vert people  when  we  're  none  of  us  even  church- 
members,  except  Candace.  I  think  all  we  can  do  is 
to  persuade  them  to  go  to  meeting  and  Sabbath- 
school,  or  give  money  for  the  hearse,  or  the  new 
horse-sheds.  Now  let 's  all  think  quietly  for  a  min- 
ute or  two  who 's  the  very  most  heathenish  and 
reperrehensiblest  person  in  Riverboro." 

After  a  very  brief  period  of  silence  the  words 
"  Jacob  Moody  "  fell  from  all  lips  with  entire  ac- 
cord. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  president  tersely ; "  and 
after  singing  hymn  number  two  hundred  seventy 
four,  to  be  found  on  the  sixty-sixth  page,  we  will 
take  up  the  question  of  persuading  Mr.  Moody  to 
attend  divine  service  or  the  minister's  Bible  class, 
he  not  having  been  in  the  meeting-house  for  lo ! 
these  many  years. 

1  Daughter  of  Zion,  the  power  that  hath  saved  thee 
Extolled  with  the  harp  and  the  timbrel  should  be.' 

Sing  without  reading,  if  you  please,  omitting  the 
second  stanza.  Hymn  two  seventy  four,  to  be  found 
on  the  sixty-sixth  page  of  the  new  hymn-book  or 
on  page  thirty-two  of  Emma  Jane  Perkins's  old 
one." 


46 


DAUGHTERS  OF   ZION 

ii 

It  is  doubtful  if  the  Rev.  Mr.  Burch  had  ever 
found  in  Syria  a  person  more  difficult  to  persuade 
than  the  already  "  gospel-hardened  "  Jacob  Moody 
of  Riverboro.  . 

Tall,  gaunt,  swarthy,  black-bearded  —  his  masses 
of  grizzled,  uncombed  hair  and  the  red  scar  across 
his  nose  and  cheek  added  to  his  sinister  appear- 
ance. His  tumble-down  house  stood  on  a  rocky 
bit  of  land  back  of  the  Sawyer  pasture,  and  the 
acres  of  his  farm  stretched  out  on  all  sides  of  it. 
He  lived  alone,  ate  alone,  plowed,  planted,  sowed, 
harvested  alone,  and  was  more  than  willing  to  die 
alone,  "unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung."  The  road 
that  bordered  upon  his  fields  was  comparatively 
little  used  by  any  one,  and  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  it  was  thickly  set  with  chokecherry  trees 
and  blackberry  bushes  it  had  been  for  years  prac- 
tically deserted  by  the  children.  Jacob's  Red  As- 
trakhan and  Granny  Garland  trees  hung  thick 
with  apples,  but  no  Riverboro  or  Edgewood  boy 
stole  them ;  for  terrifying  accounts  of  the  fate  that 
had  overtaken  one  urchin  in  times  agone  had  been 
handed  along  from  boy  to  boy,  protecting  the 
Moody  fruit  far  better  than  any  police  patrol. 

Perhaps  no  circumstances  could  have  extenuated 
the  old  man's  surly  manners  or  his  lack  of  all  citi- 
47 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

zenly  graces  and  virtues  ;  but  his  neighbors  com- 
monly rebuked  his  present  way  of  living  and  forgot 
the  troubled  past  that  had  brought  it  about :  the 
sharp-tongued  wife,  the  unloving  and  disloyal  sons, 
the  daughter's  hapless  fate,  and  all  the  other  sorry 
tricks  that  Fortune  had  played  upon  him  —  at  least 
that  was  the  way  in  which  he  had  always  regarded 
his  disappointments  and  griefs. 

This,  then,  was  the  personage  whose  moral  re- 
habilitation was  to  be  accomplished  by  the  Daugh- 
ters of  Zion.   But  how  ? 

"  Who  will  volunteer  to  visit  Mr.  Moody  ? " 
blandly  asked  the  president. 

Visit  Mr.  Moody  !  It  was  a  wonder  the  roof  of 
the  barn  chamber  did  not  fall ;  it  did,  indeed,  echo 
the  words  and  in  some  way  make  them  sound  more 
grim  and  satirical. 

"  Nobody  '11  volunteer,  Rebecca  Rowena  Randall, 
and  you  know  it,"  said  Emma  Jane. 

"  Why  don't  we  draw  lots,  when  none  of  us  wants 
to  speak  to  him  and  yet  one  of  us  must  ? " 

This  suggestion  fell  from  Persis  Watson,  who 
had  been  pale  and  thoughtful  ever  since  the  first 
mention  of  Jacob  Moody.  (She  was  fond  of  Granny 
Garlands  ;  she  had  once  met  Jacob  ;  and,  as  to  what 
befell,  well,  we  all  have  our  secret  tragedies  !) 

"  Would  n't  it  be  wicked  to  settle  it  that  way  ?" 

"It's  gamblers  that  draw  lots." 
48 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

"  People  did  it  in  the  Bible  ever  so  often." 

"  It  does  n't  seem  nice  for  a  missionary  meeting." 

These  remarks  fell  all  together  upon  the  presi- 
dent's bewildered  ear  the  while  (as  she  always  said 
in  compositions)  —  "  the  while  "  she  was  trying  to 
adjust  the  ethics  of  this  unexpected  and  difficult 
dilemma. 

"  It  is  a  very  puzzly  question,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. "  I  could  ask  Aunt  Jane  if  we  had  time,  but 
I  suppose  we  have  n't.  It  does  n't  seem  nice  to 
draw  lots,  and  yet  how  can  we  settle  it  without  ? 
We  know  we  mean  right,  and  perhaps  it  will  be. 
Alice,  take  this  paper  and  tear  off  five  narrow 
pieces,  all  different  lengths." 

At  this  moment  a  voice  from  a  distance  floated 
up  to  the  haymow  —  a  voice  saying  plaintively  : 
"  Will  you  let  me  play  with  you,  girls  ?  Huldah 
has  gone  to  ride,  and  I  'm  all  alone." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  absolutely- with  out-guile 
Thirza  Meserve,  and  it  came  at  an  opportune  mo- 
ment. 

"  If  she  is  going  to  be  a  member,"  said  Persis, 
"  why  not  let  her  come  up  and  hold  the  lots  ?  She  'd 
be  real  honest  and  not  favor  anybody." 

It  seemed  an  excellent  idea,  and  was  followed  up 
so  quickly  that  scarcely  three  minutes  ensued  be- 
fore the  guileless  one  was  holding  the  five  scraps 
in  her  hot  little  palm,  laboriously  changing  their 
49 


NEW    CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

places  again  and  again  until  they  looked  exactly 
alike  and  all  rather  soiled  and  wilted. 

"  Come,  girls,  draw !  "  commanded  the  president. 
"  Thirza,  you  must  n't  chew  gum  at  a  missionary 
meeting,  it  is  n't  polite  nor  holy.  Take  it  out  and 
stick  it  somewhere  till  the  exercises  are  over." 

The  five  Daughters  of  Zion  approached  the  spot 
so  charged  with  fate,  and  extended  their  trembling 
hands  one  by  one.  Then  after  a  moment's  silent 
clutch  of  their  papers  they  drew  nearer  to  one  an- 
other and  compared  them. 

Emma  Jane  Perkins  had  drawn  the  short  one, 
becoming  thus  the  destined  instrument  for  Jacob 
Moody's  conversion  to  a  more  seemly  manner  of 
life ! 

She  looked  about  her  despairingly,  as  if  to  seek 
some  painless  and  respectable  method  of  self-de- 
struction. 

"  Do  let 's  draw  over  again,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  'm 
the  worst  of  all  of  us.  I  'm  sure  to  make  a  mess  of 
it  till  I  kind  o'  get  trained  in." 

Rebecca's  heart  sank  at  this  frank  confession, 
which  only  corroborated  her  own  fears. 

"I'm  sorry,  Emmy,  dear,"  she  said,  "but  our 
only  excuse  for  drawing  lots  at  all  would  be  to  have 
it  sacred.  We  must  think  of  it  as  a  kind  of  a  sign, 
almost  like  God  speaking  to  Moses  in  the  burning 
bush." 

50 


DAUGHTERS  OF   ZION 

"  Oh,  I  wish  there  was  a  burning  bush  right 
here !  "  cried  the  distracted  and  recalcitrant  mis- 
sionary. "  How  quick  I  'd  step  into  it  without  even 
stopping  to  take  off  my  garnet  ring  !  " 

"  Don't  be  such  a  scare-cat,  Emma  Jane ! "  ex- 
claimed Candace  bracingly.  "Jacob  Moody  can't 
kill  you,  even  if  he  has  an  awful  temper.  Trot  right 
along  now  before  you  get  more  frightened.  Shall 
we  go  'cross  lots  with  her,  Rebecca,  and  wait  at 
the  pasture  gate  ?  Then  whatever  happens  Alice 
can  put  it  down  in  the  minutes  of  the  meeting." 

In  these  terrible  crises  of  life  time  gallops  with 
such  incredible  velocity  that  it  seemed  to  Emma 
Jane  only  a  breath  before  she  was  being  dragged 
through  the  fields  by  the  other  Daughters  of  Zion, 
the  guileless  little  Thirza  panting  in  the  rear. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  pasture  Rebecca  gave 
her  an  impassioned  embrace,  and  whispering, 
"  Whatever  you  do,  be  careful  how  you  lead  up" 
lifted  off  the  top  rail  and  pushed  her  through  the 
bars.  Then  the  girls  turned  their  backs  reluctantly 
on  the  pathetic  figure,  and  each  sought  a  tree  under 
whose  friendly  shade  she  could  watch,  and  perhaps 
pray,  until  the  missionary  should  return  from  her 
field  of  labor. 

Alice  Robinson,  whose  compositions  were  always 
marked  96  or  97,  —  100  symbolizing  such  perfec- 
tion as  could  be  attained  in  the  mortal  world  of 

5i 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Riverboro,  —  Alice,  not  only  Daughter,  but  Scribe 
of  Zion,  sharpened  her  pencil  and  wrote  a  few  well- 
chosen  words  of  introduction,  to  be  used  when  the 
records  of  the  afternoon  had  been  made  by  Emma 
Jane  Perkins  and  Jacob  Moody. 

Rebecca's  heart  beat  tumultuously  under  her 
gingham  dress.  She  felt  that  a  drama  was  being 
enacted,  and  though  unfortunately  she  was  not  the 
central  figure,  she  had  at  least  a  modest  part  in  it. 
The  short  lot  had  not  fallen  to  the  properest  Daugh- 
ter, that  she  quite  realized ;  yet  would  any  one  of 
them  succeed  in  winning  Jacob  Moody's  attention, 
in  engaging  him  in  pleasant  conversation,  and  finally 
in  bringing  him  to  a  realization  of  his  mistaken  way 
of  life  ?  She  doubted,  but  at  the  same  moment  her 
spirits  rose  at  the  thought  of  the  difficulties  involved 
in  the  undertaking. 

Difficulties  always  spurred  Rebecca  on,  but 
they  daunted  poor  Emma  Jane,  who  had  no  little 
thrills  of  excitement  and  wonder  and  fear  and  long- 
ing to  sustain  her  lagging  soul.  That  her  inter- 
view was  to  be  entered  as  "  minutes  "  by  a  secretary 
seemed  to  her  the  last  straw.  Her  blue  eyes  looked 
lighter  than  usual  and  had  the  glaze  of  china  sau- 
cers ;  her  usually  pink  cheeks  were  pale,  but  she 
pressed  on,  determined  to  be  a  faithful  Daughter 
of  Zion,  and  above  all  to  be  worthy  of  Rebecca's 
admiration  and  respect. 

52 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

"  Rebecca  can  do  anything,"  she  thought,  with 
enthusiastic  loyalty,  "  and  I  must  n't  be  any  stupider 
than  I  can  help,  or  she  '11  choose  one  of  the  other 
girls  for  her  most  intimate  friend."  So,  mustering 
all  her  courage,  she  turned  into  Jacob  Moody's 
dooryard,  where  he  was  chopping  wood. 

"  It 's  a  pleasant  afternoon,  Mr.  Moody,"  she  said 
in  a  polite  but  hoarse  whisper,  Rebecca's  words, 
"  Lead  up  !  Lead  up  !  "  ringing  in  clarion  tones 
through  her  brain. 

Jacob  Moody  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  Good 
enough,  I  guess,"  he  growled ;  "  but  I  don't  never 
have  time  to  look  at  afternoons." 

Emma  Jane  seated  herself  timorously  on  the 
end  of  a  large  log  near  the  chopping-block,  suppos- 
ing that  Jacob,  like  other  hosts,  would  pause  in  his 
tasks  and  chat. 

"  The  block  is  kind  of  like  an  idol,"  she  thought ; 
"  I  wish  I  could  take  it  away  from  him,  and  then 
perhaps  he  'd  talk." 

At  this  moment  Jacob  raised  his  axe  and  came 
down  on  the  block  with  such  a  stunning  blow  that 
Emma  Jane  fairly  leaped  into  the  air. 

"  You  'd  better  look  out,  Sissy,  or  you  '11  git 
chips  in  the  eye !  "  said  Moody,  grimly  going  on 
with  his  work. 

The  Daughter  of  Zion  sent  up  a  silent  prayer 
for  inspiration,  but  none  came,  and  she  sat  silent, 

53 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

giving  nervous  jumps  in  spite  of  herself  whenever 
the  axe  fell  upon  the  log  Jacob  was  cutting. 

Finally,  the  host  became  tired  of  his  dumb  vis- 
itor, and  leaning  on  his  axe  he  said,  "  Look  here, 
Sis,  what  have  you  come  for  ?  What 's  your  errant  ? 
Do  you  want  apples  ?  or  cider  ?  or  what  ?  Speak 
out,  or  git  out,  one  or  t'  other." 

Emma  Jane,  who  had  wrung  her  handkerchief 
into  a  clammy  ball,  gave  it  a  last  despairing  wrench, 
and  faltered  :  "  Would  n't  you  like  —  had  n't  you 
better  —  don't  you  think  you  'd  ought  to  be  more 
constant  at  meeting  and  Sabbath-school  ?  " 

Jacob's  axe  almost  dropped  from  his  nerveless 
hand,  and  he  regarded  the  Daughter  of  Zion  with 
unspeakable  rage  and  disdain.  Then,  the  blood 
mounting  in  his  face,  he  gathered  himself  together, 
and  shouted  :  "  You  take  yourself  off  that  log  and 
out  o'  this  dooryard  double-quick,  you  imperdent 
sanct'omus  young  one !  You  just  let  me  ketch  Bill 
Perkins's  child  trying  to  teach  me  where  I  shall  go, 
at  my  age !  Scuttle,  I  tell  ye  !  And  if  I  see  your 
pious  cantin'  little  mug  inside  my  fence  ag'in  on 
sech  a  business  I  '11  chase  ye  down  the  hill  or  set 
the  dog  on  ye !    Scoot,  I  tell  ye  !  " 

Emma  Jane  obeyed  orders  summarily,  taking 
herself  off  the  log,  out  the  dooryard,  and  other- 
wise scuttling  and  scooting  down  the  hill  at  a 
pace  never  contemplated  even  by  Jacob  Moody, 

54 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

who  stood  regarding  her  flying  heels  with  a  sar- 
donic grin. 

Down  she  stumbled,  the  tears  coursing  over  her 
cheeks  and  mingling  with  the  dust  of  her  flight ; 
blighted  hope,  shame,  fear,  rage,  all  tearing  her 
bosom  in  turn,  till  with  a  hysterical  shriek  she 
fell  over  the  bars  and  into  Rebecca's  arms  out- 
stretched to  receive  her.  The  other  Daughters 
wiped  her  eyes  and  supported  her  almost  fainting 
form,  while  Thirza,  thoroughly  frightened,  burst 
into  sympathetic  tears,  and  refused  to  be  com- 
forted. 

No  questions  were  asked,  for  it  was  felt  by  ail 
parties  that  Emma  Jane's  demeanor  was  answer- 
ing them  before  they  could  be  framed. 

"  He  threatened  to  set  the  dog  on  me ! "  she 
wailed  presently,  when,  as  they  neared  the  Sawyer 
pasture,  she  was  able  to  control  her  voice.  "  He 
called  me  a  pious,  cantin'  young  one,  and  said  he  'd 
chase  me  out  o'  the  dooryard  if  I  ever  came  again  ! 
And  he  '11  tell  my  father  —  I  know  he  will,  for  he 
hates  him  like  poison." 

All  at  once  the  adult  point  of  view  dawned  upon 
Rebecca.  She  never  saw  it  until  it  was  too  obvious 
to  be  ignored.  Had  they  done  wrong  in  interviewing 
Jacob  Moody  ?  Would  Aunt  Miranda  be  angry,  as 
well  as  Mr.  Perkins  ? 

"Why  was  he  so  dreadful,  Emmy?"  she  ques- 
55 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

tioned  tenderly.  "  What  did  you  say  first  ?  How 
did  you  lead  up  to  it  ? " 

Emma  Jane  sobbed  more  convulsively,  and  wiped 
her  nose  and  eyes  impartially  as  she  tried  to  think. 

"  I  guess  I  never  led  up  at  all ;  not  a  mite.  I 
did  n't  know  what  you  meant.  I  was  sent  on  an 
errant,  and  I  went  and  done  it  the  best  I  could  ! 
(Emma  Jane's  grammar  always  lapsed  in  moments 
of  excitement.)  And  then  Jake  roared  at  me  like 
Squire  Winship's  bull.  .  .  .  And  he  called  my  face 
a  mug.  .  .  .  You  shut  up  that  secretary  book, 
Alice  Robinson  !  If  you  write  down  a  single  word 
I  '11  never  speak  to  you  again.  .  .  .  And  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  '  member '  another  minute  for  fear  of 
drawing  another  short  lot.  I  've  got  enough  of  the 
Daughters  of  Zion  to  last  me  the  rest  o'  my  life ! 
I  don't  care  who  goes  to  meetin'  and  who  don't." 

The  girls  were  at  the  Perkins's  gate  by  this 
time,  and  Emma  Jane  went  sadly  into  the  empty 
house  to  remove  all  traces  of  the  tragedy  from  her 
person  before  her  mother  should  come  home  from 
the  church. 

The  others  wended  their  way  slowly  down  the 
street,  feeling  that  their  promising  missionary 
branch  had  died  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  budded. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Rebecca,  swallowing  lumps  of 
disappointment  and  chagrin  as  she  saw  the  whole 
inspiring  plan  break  and  vanish  into  thin  air  like 

56 


DAUGHTERS   OF   ZION 

an  iridescent  bubble.  "  It 's  all  over  and  we  won't 
ever  try  it  again.  I  'm  going  in  to  do  overcasting 
as  hard  as  I  can,  because  I  hate  that  the  worst. 
Aunt  Jane  must  write  to  Mrs.  Burch  that  we  don't 
want  to  be  home  missionaries.  Perhaps  we  're  not 
big  enough,  anyway.  I  'm  perfectly  certain  it 's 
nicer  to  convert  people  when  they  're  yellow  or 
brown  or  any  color  but  white;  and  I  believe  it 
must  be  easier  to  save  their  souls  than  it  is  to 
make  them  go  to  meeting." 


Third  Chronicle 
REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 


THE  "  Sawyer  girls'  "  barn  still  had  its 
haymow  in  Rebecca's  time,  although  the 
hay  was  a  dozen  years  old  or  more,  and, 
in  the  opinion  of  the  occasional  visiting  horse,  sadly 
juiceless  and  wanting  in  flavor.  It  still  sheltered, 
too,  old  Deacon  Israel  Sawyer's  carryall  and  mow- 
ing-machine, with  his  pung,  his  sleigh,  and  a  dozen 
other  survivals  of  an  earlier  era,  when  the  broad 
acres  of  the  brick  house  went  to  make  one  of  the 
finest  farms  in  Riverboro. 

There  were  no  horses  or  cows  in  the  stalls  now- 
adays; no  pig  grunting  comfortably  of  future 
spare  ribs  in  the  sty ;  no  hens  to  peck  the  plants 
in  the  cherished  garden  patch.  The  Sawyer  girls 
were  getting  on  in  years,  and,  mindful  that  care 
once  killed  a  cat,  they  ordered  their  lives  with  the 
view  of  escaping  that  particular  doom,  at  least,  and 
succeeded  fairly  well  until  Rebecca's  advent  made 
existence  a  trifle  more  sensational. 

Once  a  month  for  years  upon  years,  Miss  Mi- 
randa and  Miss  Jane  had  put  towels  over  their 

58 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

heads  and  made  a  solemn  visit  to  the  barn,  taking 
off  the  enameled  cloth  coverings  (occasionally 
called  "ernmanuel  covers"  in  Riverboro),  dusting 
the  ancient  implements,  and  sometimes  sweeping 
the  heaviest  of  the  cobwebs  from  the  corners,  or 
giving  a  brush  to  the  floor. 

Deacon  Israel's  tottering  ladder  still  stood  in  its 
accustomed  place,  propped  against  the  haymow, 
and  the  heavenly  stairway  leading  to  eternal  glory 
scarcely  looked  fairer  to  Jacob  of  old  than  this 
to  Rebecca.  By  means  of  its  dusty  rounds  she 
mounted,  mounted,  mounted  far  away  from  time 
and  care  and  maiden  aunts,  far  away  from  childish 
tasks  and  childish  troubles,  to  the  barn  chamber, 
a  place  so  full  of  golden  dreams,  happy  reveries,, 
and  vague  longings,  that,  as  her  little  brown  hands 
clung  to  the  sides  of  the  ladder  and  her  feet  trod 
the  rounds  cautiously  in  her  ascent,  her  heart  almost 
stopped  beating  in  the  sheer  joy  of  anticipation. 

Once  having  gained  the  heights,  the  next  thing 
was  to  unlatch  the  heavy  doors  and  give  them  a 
gentle  swing  outward.  Then,  oh,  ever  new  Para- 
dise !  then,  oh,  ever  lovely  green  and  growing 
world!  for  Rebecca  had  that  something  in  her  soul 
that 

"  Gives  to  seas  and  sunset  skies 
The  unspent  beauty  of  surprise." 

At  the  top  of  Guide  Board  hill  she  could  see  Alice 

59 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Robinson's  barn  with  its  shining  weather-vane,  a 
huge  burnished  fish  that  swam  with  the  wind  and 
foretold  the  day  to  all  Riverboro.  The  meadow, 
with  its  sunny  slopes  stretching  up  to  the  pine 
woods,  was  sometimes  a  flowing  sheet  of  shimmer- 
ing grass,  sometimes  —  when  daisies  and  butter^ 
cups  were  blooming  —  a  vision  of  white  and  gold. 
Sometimes  the  shorn  stubble  would  be  dotted  with 
"  the  happy  hills  of  hay,"  and  a  little  later  the 
rock  maple  on  the  edge  of  the  pines  would  stand 
out  like  a  golden  ball  against  the  green  ;  its  neigh- 
bor, the  sugar  maple,  glowing  beside  it,  brave  in 
scarlet. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  autumn  days  with  a 
wintry  nip  in  the  air  that  Adam  Ladd  (Rebecca's 
favorite  "  Mr.  Aladdin  "),  after  searching  for  her  in 
field  and  garden,  suddenly  noticed  the  open  doors 
of  the  barn  chamber,  and  called  to  her.  At  the 
sound  of  his  voice  she  dropped  her  precious  diary, 
and  flew  to  the  edge  of  the  haymow.  He  never  for- 
got the  vision  of  the  startled  little  poetess,  book  in 
one  mittened  hand,  pencil  in  the  other,  dark  hair 
all  ruffled,  with  the  picturesque  addition  of  an  occa- 
sional blade  of  straw,  her  cheeks  crimson,  her  eyes 
shining. 

"  A  Sappho  in  mittens  !  "  he  cried  laughingly, 
and  at  her  eager  question  told  her  to  look  up  the 
unknown  lady  in  the  school  encyclopaedia,  when 

60 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

she  was  admitted  to  the  Female  Seminary  at  Ware- 
ham. 

Now,  all  being  ready,  Rebecca  went  to  a  corner 
of  the  haymow,  and  withdrew  a  thick  blank-book 
with  mottled  covers.  Out  of  her  gingham  apron 
pocket  came  a  pencil,  a  bit  of  rubber,  and  some 
pieces  of  brown  paper ;  then  she  seated  herself 
gravely  on  the  floor,  and  drew  an  inverted  soap- 
box nearer  to  her  for  a  table. 

The  book  was  reverently  opened,  and  there  was 
a  serious  reading  of  the  extracts  already  carefully 
copied  therein.  Most  of  them  were  apparently  to 
the  writer's  liking,  for  dimples  of  pleasure  showed 
themselves  now  and  then,  and  smiles  of  obvious 
delight  played  about  her  face ;  but  once  in  a  while 
there  was  a  knitting  of  the  brows  and  a  sigh  of  dis- 
couragement, showing  that  the  artist  in  the  child 
was  not  wholly  satisfied. 

Then  came  the  crucial  moment  when  the  budding 
author  was  supposedly  to  be  racked  with  the  throes 
of  composition  ;  but  seemingly  there  were  no  throes. 
Other  girls  could  wield  the  darning  or  crochet  or 
knitting  needle,  and  send  the  tatting-shuttle  through 
loops  of  the  finest  cotton ;  hemstitch,  oversew,  braid 
hair  in  thirteen  strands,  but  the  pencil  was  never 
obedient  in  their  fingers,  and  the  pen  and  ink-pot 
were  a  horror  from  early  childhood  to  the  end  of 
time. 

61 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Not  so  with  Rebecca ;  her  pencil  moved  as  easily 
as  her  tongue,  and  no  more  striking  simile  could 
possibly  be  used.  Her  handwriting  was  not  Spen- 
cerian  ;  she  had  neither  time,  nor  patience,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  for  copybook  methods,  and  her  unformed 
characters  were  frequently  the  despair  of  her  teach- 
ers ;  but  write  she  could,  write  she  would,  write  she 
must  and  did,  in  season  and  out ;  from  the  time  she 
made  pothooks  at  six,  till  now,  writing  was  the  easi- 
est of  all  possible  tasks  ;  to  be  indulged  in  as  solace 
and  balm  when  the  terrors  of  examples  in  least  com- 
mon multiple  threatened  to  dethrone  the  reason,  or 
the  rules  of  grammar  loomed  huge  and  unconquer- 
able in  the  near  horizon. 

As  to  spelling,  it  came  to  her  in  the  main  by  free 
grace,  and  not  by  training,  and  though  she  slipped 
at  times  from  the  beaten  path,  her  extraordinary 
ear  and  good  visual  memory  kept  her  from  many 
or  flagrant  mistakes.  It  was  her  intention,  espe- 
cially when  saying  her  prayers  at  night,  to  look  up 
all  doubtful  words  in  her  small  dictionary,  before 
copying  her  Thoughts  into  the  sacred  book  for  the 
inspiration  of  posterity ;  but  when  genius  burned 
with  a  brilliant  flame,  and  particularly  when  she 
was  in  the  barn  and  the  dictionary  in  the  house, 
impulse  as  usual  carried  the  day. 

There  sits  Rebecca,  then,  in  the  open  door  of  the 
Sawyers'  barn  chamber  —  the  sunset  door.    How 

62 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

many  a  time  had  her  grandfather,  the  good  deacon, 
sat  just  underneath  in  his  tipped -back  chair,  when 
Mrs.  Israel's  temper  was  uncertain,  and  the  seren- 
ity of  the  barn  was  in  comforting  contrast  to  his 
own  fireside ! 

The  open  doors  swinging  out  to  the  peaceful 
landscape,  the  solace  of  the  pipe,  not  allowed  in 
the  "  settin'-room  "  —  how  beautifully  these  simple 
agents  have  ministered  to  the  family  peace  in  days 
agone  !  "  If  I  had  n't  had  my  barn  and  my  store 
both,  I  could  n't  never  have  lived  in  holy  matrimony 
with  Maryliza !  "  once  said  Mr.  Watson  feelingly. 

But  the  deacon,  looking  on  his  waving  grass  fields, 
his  tasseling  corn  and  his  timber  lands,  bright  and 
honest  as  were  his  eyes,  never  saw  such  visions 
as  Rebecca.  The  child,  transplanted  from  her 
home-farm  at  Sunnybrook,  from  the  care  of  the 
overworked  but  easy-going  mother,  and  the  com- 
panionship of  the  scantily  fed,  scantily  clothed, 
happy-go-lucky  brothers  and  sisters  —  she  had  in- 
deed fallen  on  shady  days  in  Riverboro.  The  blinds 
were  closed  in  every  room  of  the  house  but  two, 
and  the  same  might  have  been  said  of  Miss  Miran- 
da's mind  and  heart,  though  Miss  Jane  had  a  few 
windows  opening  to  the  sun,  and  Rebecca  already 
had  her  unconscious  hand  on  several  others.  Brick- 
house  rules  were  rigid  and  many  for  a  little  crea- 
ture so  full  of  life,  but  Rebecca's  gay  spirit  could 
63 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

not  be  pinioned  in  a  strait-jacket  for  long  at  a  time  ; 
it  escaped  somehow  and  winged  its  merry  way  into 
the  sunshine  and  free  air ;  if  she  were  not  allowed 
to  sing  in  the  orchard,  like  the  wild  bird  she  was, 
she  could  still  sing  in  the  cage,  like  the  canary. 

II 

If  you  had  opened  the  carefully  guarded  volume 
with  the  mottled  covers,  you  would  first  have  seen 
a  wonderful  title-page,  constructed  apparently  on 
the  same  lines  as  an  obituary,  or  the  inscription  on 
a  tombstone,  save  for  the  quantity  and  variety  of 
information  contained  in  it.  Much  of  the  matter 
would  seem  to  the  captious  critic  better  adapted  to 
the  body  of  the  book  than  to  the  title-page,  but 
Rebecca  was  apparently  anxious  that  the  principal 
personages  in  her  chronicle  should  be  well  described 
at  the  outset. 

She  seems  to  have  had  a  conviction  that  heredity 
plays  its  part  in  the  evolution  of  genius,  and  her  be- 
lief that  the  world  will  be  inspired  by  the  possession 
of  her  Thoughts  is  too  artless  to  be  offensive.  She 
evidently  has  respect  for  rich  material  confided  to 
her  teacher,  and  one  can  imagine  Miss  Dearborn's 
woe  had  she  been  confronted  by  Rebecca's  chosen 
literary  executor  and  bidden  to  deliver  certain  "Val- 
uable Poetry  and  Thoughts,"  the  property  of  pos- 
terity "unless  carelessly  destroyed." 

64 


THOUGHT   BOOK 

of 

Rebecca  Rowena  Randall 

Really  of 

Sunnybrook  Farm 

But  Temporily  of 

The  Brick  House  Riverboro. 

Own  niece  of  Miss  Miranda  and  Jane  Sawyer 

Second  of  seven  children  of  her  father  Mr.  L.  D.  M.  Randall 

(Now  at  rest  in  Temperance  cemmetary  and  there  will  be  a 

monument  as  soon  as  we  pay  off  the  morgage  on  the  farm) 

Also  of  her  mother  Mrs.  Aurelia  Randall 

■  i8l'- 

In  case  of  Death  the  best  of  these  Thoughts 

May  be  printed  in  my  Remerniscences 

For  the  Sunday  School  Library  at  Temperance,  Maine 

Which  needs  more  books  fearfully 

And  I  hereby  Will  and  Testament  them 

To  Mr.  Adam  Ladd 

Who  bought  300  cakes  of  soap  from  me 

And  thus  secured  a  premium 

A  Greatly  Needed  Banquet  Lamp 

For  my  friends  the  Simpsons. 

He  is  the  only  one  that  incourages 

My  writing  Remerniscences  and 

My  teacher  Miss  Dearborn  will 

Have  much  Valuable  Poetry  and  Thoughts 

To  give  him  unless  carelessly  destroyed. 

The  pictures  are  by  the  same  hand  that 
Wrote  the  Thoughts. 

It  is  not  now  decided  whether  Rebecca  Rowena  Randall  will  be  a 
painter  or  an  author,  but  after  her  death  it  will  be  known  which 
she  has  been,  if  any. 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

From  the  title-page,  with  its  wealth  of  detail, 
and  its  unnecessary  and  irrelevant  information,  the 
book  ripples  on  like  a  brook,  and  to  the  weary 
reader  of  problem  novels  it  may  have  something  of 
the  brook's  refreshing  quality. 


OUR  DIARIES 

May,  187-. 

All  the  girls  are  keeping  a  diary  because  Miss 
Dearborn  was  very  much  ashamed  when  the  school 
trustees  told  her  that  most  of  the  girls'  and  all  of 
the  boys'  compositions  were  disgraceful,  and  must 
be  improved  upon  next  term.  She  asked  the  boys  to 
write  letters  to  her  once  a  week  instead  of  keeping 
a  diary,  which  they  thought  was  girlish  like  play- 
ing with  dolls.  The  boys  thought  it  was  dreadful  to 
have  to  write  letters  every  seven  days,  but  she  told 
them  it  was  not  half  as  bad  for  them  as  it  was  for 
her  who  had  to  read  them. 

To  make  my  diary  a  little  different  I  am  going 
to  call  it  a  Thought  Book  (written  just  like  that, 
with  capitals).  I  have  thoughts  that  I  never  can 
use  unless  I  write  them  down,  for  Aunt  Miranda 
always  says,  Keep  your  thoughts  to  yourself.  Aunt 
Jane  lets  me  tell  her  some,  but  does  not  like  my 
queer  ones  and  my  true  thoughts  are  mostly  queer. 
Emma  Jane  does  not  mind  hearing  them  now  and 
then,  and  that  is  my  only  chance. 

66 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

If  Miss  Dearborn  does  not  like  the  name 
Thought  Book  I  will  call  it  Remerniscences  (writ- 
ten just  like  that  with  a  capital  R).  Remernis- 
cences are  things  you  remember  about  yourself 
and  write  down  in  case  you  should  die.  Aunt 
Jane  does  n't  like  to  read  any  other  kind  of  books 
but  just  lives  of  interesting  dead  people  and  she 
says  that  is  what  Longfellow  (who  was  born  in 
the  state  of  Maine  and  we  should  be  very  proud 
of  it  and  try  to  write  like  him)  meant  in  his 
poem :  — 

"  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  should  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time." 

I  know  what  this  means  because  when  Emma 
Jane  and  I  went  to  the  beach  with  Uncle  Jerry 
Cobb  we  ran  along  the  wet  sand  and  looked  at  the 
shapes  our  boots  made,  just  as  if  they  were  stamped 
in  wax.  Emma  Jane  turns  in  her  left  foot  (splay- 
foot the  boys  call  it,  which  is  not  polite)  and 
Seth  Strout  had  just  patched  one  of  my  shoes  and 
it  all  came  out  in  the  sand  pictures.  When  I 
learned  The  Psalm  of  Life  for  Friday  afternoon 
speaking  I  thought  I  should  n't  like  to  leave  a 
patched  footprint,  nor  have  Emma  Jane's  look 
crooked  on  the  sands  of  time,  and  right  away  I 
thought  Oh !  what  a  splendid  thought  for  my 
67 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Thought  Book  when  Aunt  Jane  buys  me  a  fifteen- 
cent  one  over  to  Watson's  store. 


REMERNISCENCES 

June,  187-. 

I  told  Aunt  Jane  I  was  going  to  begin  my  Rem- 
erniscences,  and  she  says  I  am  full  young,  but  I 
reminded  her  that  Candace  Milliken's  sister  died 
when  she  was  ten,  leaving  no  footprints  whatever, 
and  if  I  should  die  suddenly  who  would  write  down 
my  Remerniscences  ?  Aunt  Miranda  says  the  sun 
and  moon  would  rise  and  set  just  the  same,  and  it 
was  no  matter  if  they  did  n't  get  written  down,  and 
to  go  up  attic  and  find  her  piece-bag ;  but  I  said  it 
would,  as  there  was  only  one  of  everybody  in  the 
world,  and  nobody  else  could  do  their  remerniscen- 
sing  for  them.  If  I  should  die  to-night  I  know  not 
who  would  describe  me  right.  Miss  Dearborn  would 
say  one  thing  and  brother  John  another.  Emma  Jane 
would  try  to  do  me  justice,  but  has  no  words  ;  and  I 
am  glad  Aunt  Miranda  never  takes  the  pen  in  hand. 

My  dictionary  is  so  small  it  has  not  many  gen- 
teel words  in  it,  and  I  cannot  find  how  to  spell 
Remerniscences,  but  I  remember  from  the  cover  of 
Aunt  Jane's  book  that  there  was  an  "  s "  and  a 
"  c "  close  together  in  the  middle  of  it,  which  I 
thought  foolish  and  not  needful. 

68 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

All  the  girls  like  their  diaries  very  much,  but 
Minnie  Smellie  got  Alice  Robinson's  where  she 
had  hid  it  under  the  school  wood-pile  and  read  it 
all  through.  She  said  it  was  no  worse  than  reading 
anybody's  composition,  but  we  told  her  it  was  just 
like  peeking  through  a  keyhole,  or  listening  at  a 
window,  or  opening  a  bureau  drawer.  She  said  she 
did  n't  look  at  it  that  way,  and  I  told  her  that  un- 
less her  eyes  got  unscealed  she  would  never  leave 
any  kind  of  a  sublime  footprint  on  the  sands  of 
time.  I  told  her  a  diary  was  very  sacred  as  you 
generally  poured  your  deepest  feelings  into  it  ex- 
pecting nobody  to  look  at  it  but  yourself  and  your 
indulgent  heavenly  Father  who  seeeth  all  things. 

Of  course  it  would  not  hurt  Persis  Watson  to 
show  her  diary  because  she  has  not  a  sacred  plan 
and  this  is  the  way  it  goes,  for  she  reads  it  out 
loud  to  us  :  — 

"  Arose  at  six  this  morning  —  (you  always  arise 
in  a  diary  but  you  say  get  up  when  you  talk 
about  it).  Ate  breakfast  at  half  past  six.  Had  soda 
biscuits,  coffee,  fish  hash  and  doughnuts.  Wiped 
the  dishes,  fed  the  hens  and  made  my  bed  before 
school.  Had  a  good  arithmetic  lesson,  but  went 
down  two  in  spelling.  At  half  past  four  played  hide 
and  coop  in  the  Sawyer  pasture.  Fed  hens  and 
went  to  bed  at  eight." 

She  says  she  can't  put  in  what  does  n't  happen, 
69 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

but  as  I  don't  think  her  diary  is  interesting  she 
will  ask  her  mother  to  have  meat  hash  instead  of 
fish,  with  pie  when  the  doughnuts  give  out,  and 
she  will  feed  the  hens  before  breakfast  to  make  a 
change.  We  are  all  going  now  to  try  and  make 
something  happen  every  single  day  so  the  diaries 
won't  be  so  dull  and  the  footprints  so  common. 


AN   UNCOMMON   THOUGHT 

July  187-. 

We  dug  up  our  rosecakes  to-day,  and  that  gave 
me  a  good  Remerniscence.  The  way  you  make 
rosecakes  is,  you  take  the  leaves  of  full  blown  roses 
and  mix  them  with  a  little  cinnamon  and  as  much 
brown  sugar  as  they  will  give  you,  which  is  never 
half  enough  except  Persis  Watson,  whose  affection- 
ate parents  let  her  go  to  the  barrel  in  their  store. 
Then  you  do  up  little  bits  like  sedlitz  powders, 
first  in  soft  paper  and  then  in  brown,  and  bury 
them  in  the  ground  and  let  them  stay  as  long  as 
you  possibly  can  hold  out ;  then  dig  them  up  and 
eat  them.  Emma  Jane  and  I  stick  up  little  signs 
over  the  holes  in  the  ground  with  the  date  we 
buried  them  and  when  they  '11  be  done  enough  to 
dig  up,  but  we  can  never  wait.  When  Aunt  Jane 
saw  us  she  said  it  was  the  first  thing  for  children 
to  learn,  —  not  to  be  impatient,  —  so  when  I  went 
to  the  barn  chamber  I  made  a  poem. 

70 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

IMPATIENCE 

We  dug  our  rose  cakes  up  oh  !  all  too  soon. 

'T  was  in  the  orchard  just  at  noon. 

'T  was  in  a  bright  July  forenoon. 

'T  was  in  the  sunny  afternoon. 

'T  was  underneath  the  harvest  moon. 

It  was  not  that  way  at  all ;  it  was  a  foggy  morn- 
ing before  school,  and  I  should  think  poets  could 
never  possibly  get  to  heaven,  for  it  is  so  hard  to 
stick  to  the  truth  when  you  are  writing  poetry. 
Emma  Jane  thinks  it  is  nobody's  business  when 
we  dug  the  rosecakes  up.  I  like  the  line  about  the 
harvest  moon  best,  but  it  would  give  a  wrong  idea 
of  our  lives  and  characters  to  the  people  that  read 
my  Thoughts,  for  they  would  think  we  were  up 
2ate  nights,  so  I  have  fixed  it  like  this : 

IMPATIENCE 

We  dug  our  rose  cakes  up  oh  !  all  too  soon, 
We  thought  their  sweetness  would  be  such  a  boon. 
We  ne'er  suspicioned  they  would  not  be  done 
After  three  days  of  autumn  wind  and  sun. 
Why  did  we  from  the  earth  our  treasures  draw  ? 
'T  was  not  for  fear  that  rat  or  mole  might  naw, 
An  aged  aunt  doth  say  impatience  was  the  reason, 
She  says  that  youth  is  ever  out  of  season. 

That  is  just  as  Aunt  Jane  said  it,  and  it  gave 
me  the  thought  for  the  poem  which  is  rather  un 
common. 


71 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

A   DREADFUL   QUESTION 

September,  187-. 

Which  has  been  the  most  Benefercent  Influence  on 
Character  —  Punishment  or  Reward  ? 

This  truly  dreadful  question  was  given  us  by 
Dr.  Moses  when  he  visited  school  to-day.  He  is  a 
School  Committee ;  not  a  whole  one  but  I  do  not 
know  the  singular  number  of  him.  He  told  us  we 
could  ask  our  families  what  they  thought,  though  he 
would  rather  we  would  n't,  but  we  must  write  our 
own  words  and  he  would  hear  them  next  week. 

After  he  went  out  and  shut  the  door  the  scholars 
were  all  plunged  in  gloom  and  you  could  have  heard 
a  pin  drop.  Alice  Robinson  cried  and  borrowed  my 
handkerchief,  and  the  boys  looked  as  if  the  school- 
house  had  been  struck  by  lightning.  The  worst  of 
all  was  poor  Miss  Dearborn,  who  will  lose  her  place 
if  she  does  not  make  us  better  scholars  soon,  for 
Dr.  Moses  has  a  daughter  all  ready  to  put  right  in 
to  the  school  and  she  can  board  at  home  and  save 
all  her  wages.    Libby  Moses  is  her  name. 

Miss  Dearborn  stared  out  the  window,  and  her 
mouth  and  chin  shook  like  Alice  Robinson's,  for 
she  knew,  ah  !  all  too  well,  what  the  coming  week 
would  bring  forth. 

Then  I  raised  my  hand  for  permission  to  speak, 
and  stood  up  and  said  :  "  Miss  Dearborn,  don't  you 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

mind  !  Just  explain  to  us  what  '  benefercent '  means 
and  we  '11  write  something  real  interesting ;  for  all 
of  us  know  what  punishment  is,  and  have  seen  oth- 
ers get  rewards,  and  it  is  not  so  bad  a  subject  as 
some."  And  Dick  Carter  whispered,  "  Good  on 
your  head,  Rebecca  !  "  which  meant  he  was  sorry 
for  her  too,  and  would  try  his  best,  but  has  no 
words. 

Then  teacher  smiled  and  said  benefercent  meant 
good  or  healthy  for  anybody,  and  would  all  rise  who 
thought  punishment  made  the  best  scholars  and 
men  and  women  ;  and  everybody  sat  stock  still. 

And  then  she  asked  all  to  stand  who  believed 
that  rewards  produced  the  finest  results,  and  there 
was  a  mighty  sound  like  unto  the  rushing  of  wa- 
ters, but  really  was  our  feet  scraping  the  floor,  and 
the  scholars  stood  up,  and  it  looked  like  an  army, 
though  it  was  only  nineteen,  because  of  the  strong 
belief  that  was  in  them.  Then  Miss  Dearborn 
laughed  and  said  she  was  thankful  for  every  whip- 
ping she  had  when  she  was  a  child,  and  Living 
Perkins  said  perhaps  we  had  n't  got  to  the  thankful 
age,  or  perhaps  her  father  had  n't  used  a  strap,  and 
she  said  oh !  no,  it  was  her  mother  with  the  open 
hand  ;  and  Dick  Carter  said  he  would  n't  call  that 
punishment,  and  Sam  Simpson  said  so  too. 

I  am  going  to  write  about  the  subject  in  my 
Thought  Book  first,  and  when  I  make  it  into  a  com- 
73 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

position,  I  can  leave  out  anything  about  the  family 
or  not  genteel,  as  there  is  much  to  relate  about  pun- 
ishment not  pleasant  or  nice  and  hardly  polite. 


PUNISHMENT 

Punishment  is  a  very  puzzly  thing,  but  I  believe 
in  it  when  really  deserved,  only  when  I  punish  my- 
self it  does  not  always  turn  out  well.  When  I  leaned 
over  the  new  bridge,  and  got  my  dress  all  paint, 
and  Aunt  Sarah  Cobb  could  n't  get  it  out,  I  had  to 
wear  it  spotted  for  six  months  which  hurt  my  pride, 
but  was  right.  I  stayed  at  home  from  Alice  Robin- 
son's birthday  party  for  a  punishment,  and  went  to 
the  circus  next  day  instead,  but  Alice's  parties  are 
very  cold  and  stiff,  as  Mrs.  Robinson  makes  the 
boys  stand  on  newspapers  if  they  come  inside  the 
door,  and  the  blinds  are  always  shut,  and  Mrs. 
Robinson  tells  me  how  bad  her  liver  complaint  is 
this  year.  So  I  thought,  to  pay  for  the  circus  and 
a  few  other  things,  I  ought  to  get  more  punish- 
ment, and  I  threw  my  pink  parasol  down  the  well, 
as  the  mothers  in  the  missionary  books  throw  their 
infants  to  the  crocodiles  in  the  Ganges  river.  But 
it  got  stuck  in  the  chain  that  holds  the  bucket,  and 
Aunt  Miranda  had  to  get  Abijah  Flagg  to  take  out 
all  the  broken  bits  before  we  could  bring  up  water. 

I  punished  myself  this  way  because  Aunt  Mi- 
74 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT  BOOK 

randa  said  that  unless  I  improved  I  would  be  no- 
thing but  a  Burden  and  a  Blight. 

There  was  an  old  man  used  to  go  by  our  farm 
carrying  a  lot  of  broken  chairs  to  bottom,  and 
mother  used  to  say  —  "  Poor  man  !  his  back  is  too 
weak  for  such  a  burden  ! "  and  I  used  to  take  him 
out  a  doughnut,  and  this  is  the  part  I  want  to  go 
into  the  Remerniscences.  Once  I  told  him  we  were 
sorry  the  chairs  were  so  heavy,  and  he  said  they 
did  71 1  seem  so  heavy  when  he  had  et  the  doughnut. 
This  does  not  mean  that  the  doughnut  was  heavier 
than  the  chairs  which  is  what  brother  John  said,  but 
it  is  a  beautiful  thought  and  shows  how  the  human 
race  should  have  sympathy,  and  help  bear  burdens. 

I  know  about  a  Blight,  for  there  was  a  dreadful 
east  wind  over  at  our  farm  that  destroyed  all  the 
little  young  crops  just  out  of  the  ground,  and  the 
farmers  called  it  the  Blight.  And  I  would  rather 
be  hail,  sleet,  frost,  or  snow  than  a  Blight,  which  is 
mean  and  secret,  and  which  is  the  reason  I  threw 
away  the  dearest  thing  on  earth  to  me,  the  pink 
parasol  that  Miss  Ross  brought  me  from  Paris, 
France.  I  have  also  wrapped  up  my  bead  purse  in 
three  papers  and  put  it  away  marked  not  to  be  opened 
till  after  my  death  unless  needed  for  a  party. 

I  must  not  be  Burden,  I  must  not  be  Blight, 
The  angels  in  heaven  would  weep  at  the  sight. 

75 


NEW   CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

REWARDS 

A  good  way  to  find  out  which  has  the  most  be- 
nefercent  effect  would  be  to  try  rewards  on  myself 
this  next  week  and  write  my  composition  the  very 
last  day,  when  I  see  how  my  character  is.  It  is 
hard  to  find  rewards  for  yourself,  but  perhaps  Aunt 
Jane  and  some  of  the  girls  would  each  give  me 
one  to  help  out.  I  could  carry  my  bead  purse  to 
school  every  day,  or  wear  my  coral  chain  a  little 
while  before  I  go  to  sleep  at  night.  I  could  read 
Cora  or  the  Sorrows  of  a  Doctor's  Wife  a  little 
oftener,  but  that 's  all  the  rewards  I  can  think  of. 
I  fear  Aunt  Miranda  would  say  they  are  wicked 
but  oh  !  if  they  should  turn  out  benefercent  how 
glad  and  joyful  life  would  be  to  me  !  A  sweet  and 
beautiful  character,  beloved  by  my  teacher  and 
schoolmates,  admired  and  petted  by  my  aunts  and 
neighbors,  yet  carrying  my  bead  purse  constantly, 
with  perhaps  my  best  hat  on  Wednesday  after- 
noons, as  well  as  Sundays  ! 

A  GREAT   SHOCK 

The  reason  why  Alice  Robinson  could  not  play 
was,  she  was  being  punished  for  breaking  her 
mother's  blue  platter.  Just  before  supper  my  story 
being  finished  I  went  up  Guide  Board  hill  to  see 

76 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

how  she  was  bearing  up  and  she  spoke  to  me  from 
her  window.  She  said  she  did  not  mind  being  pun- 
ished because  she  had  n't  been  for  a  long  time,  and 
she  hoped  it  would  help  her  with  her  composition. 
She  thought  it  would  give  her  thoughts,  and  to- 
morrow 's  the  last  day  for  her  to  have  any.  This 
gave  me  a  good  idea  and  I  told  her  to  call  her 
father  up  and  beg  him  to  beat  her  violently.  It 
would  hurt,  I  said,  but  perhaps  none  of  the  other 
girls  would  have  a  punishment  like  that,  and  her 
composition  would  be  all  different  and  splendid.  I 
would  borrow  Aunt  Miranda's  witchhayzel  and  pour 
it  on  her  wounds  like  the  Sumaritan  in  the  Bible. 

I  went  up  again  after  supper  with  Dick  Carter  to 
see  how  it  turned  out.  Alice  came  to  the  window 
and  Dick  threw  up  a  note  tied  to  a  stick.  I  had 
written  :  li  Demand  your  punishment  to  the  full.  Be 
brave  like  Dolores'  mother  in  the  Martyrs  of  Spain." 

She  threw  down  an  answer,  and  it  was  :  "  You 
just  be  like  Dolores'  mother  yourself  if  you're  so 
smart !  "  Then  she  stamped  away  from  the  window 
and  my  feelings  were  hurt,  but  Dick  said  perhaps 
she  was  hungry,  and  that  made  her  cross.  And  as 
Dick  and  I  turned  to  go  out  of  the  yard  we  looked 
back  and  I  saw  something  I  can  never  forget.  (The 
Great  Shock)  Mrs.  Robinson  was  out  behind  the 
barn  feeding  the  turkies.  Mr.  Robinson  came  softly 
out  of  the  side  door  in  the  orcherd  and  looking 
77 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

everywheres  around  he  stepped  to  the  wire  closet 
and  took  out  a  saucer  of  cold  beans  with  a  pickled 
beet  on  top,  and  a  big  piece  of  blueberry  pie.  Then 
he  crept  up  the  back  stairs  and  we  could  see  Alice 
open  her  door  and  take  in  the  supper. 

Oh !  what  will  become  of  her  composition,  and 
how  can  she  tell  anything  of  the  benefercent  effects 
of  punishment,  when  she  is  locked  up  by  one  par- 
ent, and  fed  by  the  other?  I  have  forgiven  her 
for  the  way  she  snapped  me  up  for,  of  course,  you 
could  n't  beg  your  father  to  beat  you  when  he  was 
bringing  you  blueberry  pie.  Mrs.  Robinson  makes 
a  kind  that  leaks  out  a  thick  purple  juice  into  the 
plate  and  needs  a  spoon  and  blacks  your  mouth, 
but  is  heavenly. 


A  DREAM 

The  week  is  almost  up  and  very  soon  Dr.  Moses 
will  drive  up  to  the  school  house  like  Elijah  in  the 
chariot  and  come  in  to  hear  us  read.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  sickness  among  us.  Some  of  the  boys 
are  not  able  to  come  to  school  just  now,  but  hope 
to  be  about  again  by  Monday,  when  Dr.  Moses  goes 
away  to  a  convention.  It  is  a  very  hard  composition 
to  write,  somehow.  Last  night  I  dreamed  that  the 
river  was  ink  and  I  kept  dipping  into  it  and  writing 
with  a  penstalk  made  of  a  young  pine  tree.    I  sliced 

78 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

great  slabs  of  marble  off  the  side  of  one  of  the 
White  Mountains,  the  one  you  see  when  going  to 
meeting,  and  wrote  on  those.  Then  I  threw  them 
all  into  the  falls,  not  being  good  enough  for  Dr. 
Moses. 

Dick  Carter  had  a  splendid  boy  to  stay  over  Sun- 
day. He  makes  the  real  newspaper  named  The 
Pilot  published  by  the  boys  at  Wareham  Academy. 
He  says  when  he  talks  about  himself  in  writing  he 
calls  himself  "we,"  and  it  sounds  much  more  like 
print,  besides  conscealing  him  more. 

Example :  Our  hair  was  measured  this  morning 
and  has  grown  two  inches  since  last  time.  .  .  .  We 
have  a  loose  tooth  that  troubles  us  very  much.  .  .  . 
Our  inkspot  that  we  made  by  negligence  on  our 
only  white  petticoat  we  have  been  able  to  remove 
with  lemon  and  milk.  Some  of  our  petticoat  came 
out  with  the  spot. 

I  shall  try  it  in  my  composition  sometime,  for  of 
course  I  shall  write  for  the  Pilot  when  I  go  to 
Wareham  Seminary.  Uncle  Jerry  Cobb  says  that 
I  shall,  and  thinks  that  in  four  years  I  might  rise 
to  be  editor  if  they  ever  have  girls. 

I  have  never  been  more  good  than  since  I  have 
been  rewarding  myself  steady,  even  to  asking  Aunt 
Miranda  kindly  to  offer  me  a  company  jelly-tart, 
not  because  I  was  hungry,  but  for  an  experement 
I  was  trying,  and  would  explain  to  her  sometime. 
79 


NEW    CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

She  said  she  never  thought  it  was  wise  to  ex- 
perement  with  your  stomach,  and  I  said,  with  a 
queer  thrilling  look,  it  was  not  my  stomach  but  my 
soul,  that  was  being  tried.  Then  she  gave  me  the 
tart  and  walked  away  all  puzzled  and  nervous. 

The  new  minister  has  asked  me  to  come  and  see 
him  any  Saturday  afternoon  as  he  writes  poetry 
himself,  but  I  would  rather  not  ask  him  about  this 
composition. 

Ministers  never  believe  in  rewards,  and  it  is  use- 
less to  hope  that  they  will.  We  had  the  wrath  of 
God  four  times  in  sermons  this  last  summer,  but 
God  cannot  be  angry  all  the  time,  —  nobody  could, 
especially  in  summer ;  Mr.  Baxter  is  different  and 
calls  his  wife  dear  which  is  lovely  and  the  first  time 
I  ever  heard  it  in  Riverboro.  Mrs.  Baxter  is  another 
kind  of  people  too,  from  those  that  live  in  Temper- 
ance. I  like  to  watch  her  in  meeting  and  see  her 
listen  to  her  husband  who  is  young  and  handsome 
for  a  minister ;  it  gives  me  very  queer  and  uncom- 
mon feelings,  when  they  look  at  each  other,  which 
they  always  do  when  not  otherwise  engaged. 

She  has  different  clothes  from  anybody  else. 
Aunt  Miranda  says  you  must  think  only  of  two 
things  :  will  your  dress  keep  you  warm  and  will  it 
wear  well  and  there  is  nobody  in  the  world  to  know 
how  I  love  pink  and  red  and  how  I  hate  drab  and 
green  and  how  I  never  wear  my  hat  with  the  black 

80 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

and  yellow  porkupine  quills  without  wishing  it  would 
blow  into  the  river. 

Whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad 

How  many  quills  I  see. 
But  as  they  are  not  porkupines 

They  never  come  to  me. 

COMPOSITION 

Which  has  the  most  Benefercent  Effect  on  the 
Character,  Punishment  or  Reward? 
by 
Rebecca  Rowena  Randall. 
(This  copy  not  corrected  by  Miss  Dearborn  yet.) 

We  find  ourselves  very  puzzled  in  approaching 
this  truly  great  and  national  question  though  we 
have  tried  very  ernestly  to  understand  it,  so  as  to 
show  how  wisely  and  wonderfully  our  dear  teacher 
guides  the  youthful  mind,  it  being  her  wish  that 
our  composition  class  shall  long  be  remembered  in 
Riverboro  Centre. 

We  would  say  first  of  all  that  punishment  seems 
more  benefercently  needed  by  boys  than  girls.  Boys' 
sins  are  very  violent,  like  stealing  fruit,  profane  lan- 
guage, playing  truant,  fighting,  breaking  windows, 
and  killing  innocent  little  flies  and  bugs.  If  these 
were  not  taken  out  of  them  early  in  life  it  would  be 
impossible  for  them  to  become  like  our  martyred 
president,  Abraham  Lincoln. 
81 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Although  we  have  asked  everybody  on  our  street, 
they  think  boys'  sins  can  only  be  whipped  out  of 
them  with  a  switch  or  strap,  which  makes  us  feel 
very  sad,  as  boys  when  not  sinning  the  dreadful 
sins  mentioned  above  seem  just  as  good  as  girls, 
and  never  cry  when  switched,  and  say  it  does  not 
hurt  much. 

We  now  approach  girls,  which  we  know  better, 
being  one.  Girls  seem  better  than  boys  because 
their  sins  are  not  so  noisy  and  showy.  They  can 
disobey  their  parents  and  aunts,  whisper  in  silent 
hour,  cheat  in  lessons,  say  angry  things  to  their 
schoolmates,  tell  lies,  be  sulky  and  lazy,  but  all 
these  can  be  conducted  quite  ladylike  and  genteel, 
and  nobody  wants  to  strap  girls  because  their  skins 
are  tender  and  get  black  and  blue  very  easily. 

Punishments  make  one  very  unhappy  and  re- 
wards very  happy,  and  one  would  think  when  one 
is  happy  one  would  behave  the  best.  We  were  ac- 
quainted with  a  girl  who  gave  herself  rewards  every 
day  for  a  week,  and  it  seemed  to  make  her  as  lovely 
a  character  as  one  could  wish  ;  but  perhaps  if  one 
went  on  for  years  giving  rewards  to  onesself  one 
would  become  selfish.  One  cannot  tell,  one  can 
only  fear. 

If  a  dog  kills  a  sheep  we  should  whip  him  straight 
away,  and  on  the  very  spot  where  he  can  see  the 
sheep,  or  he  will  not  know  what  we  mean,  and  may 

82 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT  BOOK 

forget  and  kill  another.  The  same  is  true  of  the 
human  race.  We  must  be  firm  and  patient  in  pun- 
ishing, no  matter  how  much  we  love  the  one  who 
has  done  wrong,  and  how  hungry  she  is.'  It  does  no 
good  to  whip  a  person  with  one  hand  and  offer  her 
a  pickled  beet  with  the  other.  This  confuses  her 
mind,  and  she  may  grow  up  not  knowing  right  from 
wrong.1 

We  now  respectfully  approach  the  Holy  Bible 
and  the  people  in  the  Bible  were  punished  the 
whole  time,  and  that  would  seem  to  make  it  right. 
Everybody  says  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chas- 
teneth ;  but  we  think  ourself,  that  the  Lord  is  a 
better  punisher  than  we  are,  and  knows  better  how 
and  when  to  do  it  having  attended  to  it  ever  since 
the  year  b.  c.  while  the  human  race  could  not 
know  about  it  till  1492  A.  d.,  which  is  when  Co- 
lumbus discovered  America. 

We  do  not  believe  we  can  find  out  all  about  this 
truly  great  and  national  subject  till  we  get  to 
heaven,  where  the  human  race,  strapped  and  un- 
strapped, if  any,  can  meet  together  and  laying 
down  their  harps  discuss  how  they  got  there. 

And  we  would  gently  advise  boys  to  be  more 

1  The  striking  example  of  the  pickled  beet  was  removed  from 
the  essay  by  the  refined  but  ruthless  Miss  Dearborn,  who  strove 
patiently,  but  vainly,  to  keep  such  vulgar  images  out  of  her  pupils' 
literary  efforts. 

83 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

quiet  and  genteel  in  conduct  and  try  rewards  to 
see  how  they  would  work.  Rewards  are  not  all 
like  the  little  rosebud  merit-cards  we  receive  on 
Fridays,  and  which  boys  sometimes  tear  up  and 
fling  scornfully  to  the  breeze  when  they  get  out- 
side, but  girls  preserve  carefully  in  an  envelope. 

Some  rewards  are  great  and  glorious,  for  boys 
can  get  to  be  governor  or  school  trustee  or  road 
commissioner  or  president,  while  girls  can  only  be 
wife  and  mother.  But  all  of  us  can  have  the  orna- 
ment of  a  meek  and  lowly  spirit,  especially  girls, 
who  have  more  use  for  it  than  boys. 

R.  R.  R. 


STORIES   AND   PEOPLE 

October,  187-. 
There  are  people  in  books  and  people  in  River- 
boro,  and  they  are  not  the  same  kind.  They  never 
talk  of  chargers  and  palfreys  in  the  village,  nor  say 
How  oft  and  Methinks,  and  if  a  Scotchman  out  of 
Rob  Roy  should  come  to  Riverboro  and  want  to 
marry  one  of  us  girls  we  could  not  understand 
him  unless  he  made  motions ;  though  Huldah  Me- 
serve  says  if  a  nobleman  of  high  degree  should 
ask  her  to  be  his,  —  one  of  vast  estates  with  serfs 
at  his  bidding,  —  she  would  be  able  to  guess  his 
meaning  in  any  language. 

84 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

Uncle  Jerry  Cobb  thinks  that  Riverboro  people 
would  not  make  a  story,  but  I  know  that  some  of 
them  would. 

Jack-o'-lantern,  though  only  a  baby,  was  just 
like  a  real  story  if  anybody  had  written  a  piece 
about  him  :  How  his  mother  was  dead  and  his 
father  ran  away  and  Emma  Jane  and  I  got  Aunt 
Sarah  Cobb  to  keep  him  so  Mr.  Perkins  would  n't 
take  him  to  the  poor-farm;  and  about  our  lovely 
times  with  him  that  summer,  and  our  dreadful  loss 
when  his  father  remembered  him  in  the  fall  and 
came  to  take  him  away  ;  and  how  Aunt  Sarah  car- 
ried the  trundle  bed  up  attic  again  and  Emma 
Jane  and  I  heard  her  crying  and  stole  away. 

Mrs.  Peter  Meserve  says  Grandpa  Sawyer  was  a 
wonderful  hand  at  stories  before  his  spirit  was 
broken  by  grandmother.  She  says  he  was  the  life 
of  the  store  and  tavern  when  he  was  a  young  man, 
though  generally  sober,  and  she  thinks  I  take  after 
him,  because  I  like  compositions  better  than  all  the 
other  lessons  ;  but  mother  says  I  take  after  father, 
who  always  could  say  everything  nicely  whether 
he  had  anything  to  say  or  not;  so  methinks  I 
should  be  grateful  to  both  of  them.  They  are  what 
is  called  ancestors  and  much  depends  upon  whether 
you  have  them  or  not.  The  Simpsons  have  not  any 
at  all.  Aunt  Miranda  says  the  reason  everybody  is 
so  prosperous  around  here  is  because  their  ances- 
85 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

tors  were  all  first  settlers   and  raised  on  burnt 
ground.    This  should  make  us  very  proud. 

Methinks  and  methought  are  splendid  words  for 
compositions.  Miss  Dearborn  likes  them  very  much, 
but  Alice  and  I  never  bring  them  in  to  suit  her.  Me- 
thought means  the  same  as  I  thought,  but  sounds 
better.  Example :  If  you  are  telling  a  dream  you 
had  about  your  aged  aunt :  — 

Methought  I  heard  her  say 

My  child  you  have  so  useful  been 

You  need  not  sew  to-day. 

This  is  a  good  example  one  way,  but  too  unlikely, 
woe  is  me ! 

This  afternoon  I  was  walking  over  to  the  store 
to  buy  molasses,  and  as  I  came  off  the  bridge  and 
turned  up  the  hill,  I  saw  lots  and  lots  of  heelprints 
in  the  side  of  the  road,  —  heelprints  with  little 
spike-holes  in  them. 

"  Oh  !  the  river  drivers  have  come  from  up  coun- 
try," I  thought,  "  and  they  '11  be  breaking  the  jam 
at  our  falls  to-morrow."  I  looked  everywhere  about 
and  not  a  man  did  I  see,  but  still  I  knew  I  was  not 
mistaken  for  the  heelprints  could  not  lie.  All  the 
way  over  and  back  I  thought  about  it,  though  un- 
fortunately forgetting  the  molasses,  and  Alice  Rob- 
inson not  being  able  to  come  out,  I  took  playtime 
to  write  a  story.  It  is  the  first  grown-up  one  I  ever 
did,  and  is  intended  to  be  like  Cora  the  Doctor's 

86 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT  BOOK 

Wife,  not  like  a  school  composition.  It  is  written 
for  Mr.  Adam  Ladd,  and  people  like  him  who  live 
in  Boston,  and  is  the  printed  kind  you  get  money 
for,  to  pay  off  a  morgage. 


LANCELOT  OR  THE  PARTED  LOVERS 

A  beautiful  village  maiden  was  betrothed  to  a 
stallwart  river  driver,  but  they  had  high  and  bitter 
words  and  parted,  he  to  weep  into  the  crystal  stream 
as  he  drove  his  logs,  and  she  to  sigh  and  moan  as 
she  went  about  her  round  of  household  tasks. 

At  eventide  the  maiden  was  wont  to  lean  over 
the  bridge  and  her  tears  also  fell  into  the  foaming 
stream  ;  so,  though  the  two  unhappy  lovers  did  not 
know  it,  the  river  was  their  friend,  the  only  one  to 
whom  they  told  their  secrets  and  wept  into. 

The  months  crept  on  and  it  was  the  next  July 
when  the  maiden  was  passing  over  the  bridge  and 
up  the  hill.  Suddenly  she  spied  footprints  on  the 
sands  of  time. 

"The  river  drivers  have  come  again !  •'  she  cried, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  side  for  she  had  a  slight 
heart  trouble  like  Cora  and  Mrs.  Peter  Meserve,  that 
does  n't  kill. 

"  They  have  come  indeed ;  especially  one  you 
know,"  said  a  voice,  and  out  from  the  alder  bushes 
sprung  Lancelot  Littlefield,  for  that  was  the  lover's 
87 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

name  and  it  was  none  other  than  he.  His  hair  was 
curly  and  like  living  gold.  His  shirt,  while  of  flannel, 
was  new  and  dry,  and  of  a  handsome  color,  and  as 
the  maiden  looked  at  him  she  could  think  of  nought 
but  a  fairy  prince. 

"Forgive,"  she  mermered,  stretching  out  her 
waisted  hands. 

"  Nay,  sweet,"  he  replied.  "  'T  is  I  should  say  that 
to  you,"  and  bending  gracefully  on  one  knee  he 
kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress.  It  was  a  rich  pink 
gingham  check,  ellaborately  ornamented  with  white 
tape  trimming. 

Clasping  each  other  to  the  heart  like  Cora  and 
the  Doctor,  they  stood  there  for  a  long  while,  till 
they  heard  the  rumble  of  wheels  on  the  bridge  and 
knew  they  must  disentangle. 

The  wheels  came  nearer  and  verily !  it  was  the 
maiden's  father. 

"  Can  I  wed  with  your  fair  daughter  this  very 
moon,"  asked  Lancelot,  who  will  not  be  called  his 
whole  name  again  in  this  story. 

"  You  may,"  said  the  father,  "  for  lo !  she  has 
been  ready  and  waiting  for  many  months."  This 
he  said  not  noting  how  he  was  shaming  the  maiden, 
whose  name  was  Linda  Rowenetta. 

Then  and  there  the  nuptial  day  was  appointed 
and  when  it  came,  the  marriage  knot  was  tied  upon 
the  river  bank  where  first  they  met ;  the  river  bank 

88 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT  BOOK 

where  they  had  parted  in  anger,  and  where  they 
had  again  scealed  their  vows  and  clasped  each  other 
to  the  heart.  And  it  was  very  low  water  that  sum- 
mer, and  the  river  always  thought  it  was  because 
no  tears  dropped  into  it  but  so  many  smiles  that 
like  sunshine  they  dried  it  up.  R.  R.  R. 

Finis. 


CAREERS 

November,  187-. 

Long  ago  when  I  used  to  watch  Miss  Ross  paint- 
ing the  old  mill  at  Sunnybrook  I  thought  I  would 
be  a  painter,  for  Miss  Ross  went  to  Paris  France 
where  she  bought  my  bead  purse  and  pink  parasol 
and  I  thought  I  would  like  to  see  a  street  with 
beautiful  bright-colored  things  sparkling  and  hang- 
ing in  the  store  windows. 

Then  when  the  missionaries  from  Syria  came  to 
stay  at  the  brick  house  Mrs.  Burch  said  that  after 
I  had  experienced  religion  I  must  learn  music  and 
train  my  voice  and  go  out  to  heathen  lands  and 
save  souls,  so  I  thought  that  would  be  my  career. 
But  we  girls  tried  to  have  a  branch  and  be  home 
missionaries  and  it  did  not  work  well.  Emma 
Jane's  father  would  not  let  her  have  her  birthday 
party  when  he  found  out  what  she  had  done  and 
Aunt  Jane  sent  me  up  to  Jake  Moody's  to  tell  him 

89 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

we  did  not  mean  to  be  rude  when  we  asked  him  to 
go  to  meeting  more  often.  He  said  all  right,  but 
just  let  him  catch  that  little  dough-faced  Perkins 
young  one  in  his  yard  once  more  and  she'd  have 
reason  to  remember  the  call,  which  was  just  as 
rude  and  impolite  as  our  trying  to  lead  him  to  a 
purer  and  a  better  life. 

Then  Uncle  Jerry  and  Mr.  Aladdin  and  Miss 
Dearborn  liked  my  compositions,  and  I  thought 
I  'd  better  be  a  writer,  for  I  must  be  something 
the  minute  I  'm  seventeen,  or  how  shall  we  ever 
get  the  morgage  off  the  farm  ?  But  even  that  hope 
is  taken  away  from  me  now,  for  Uncle  Jerry  made 
fun  of  my  story  Lancelot  Or  The  Parted  Lovers 
and  I  have  decided  to  be  a  teacher  like  Miss  Dear- 
born. 

The  pathetic  announcement  of  a  change  in  the 
career  and  life  purposes  of  Rebecca  was  brought 
about  by  her  reading  the  grown-up  story  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Jeremiah  Cobb  after  supper  in  the  or- 
chard. Uncle  Jerry  was  the  person  who  had  main- 
tained all  along  that  Riverboro  people  would  not 
make  a  story ;  and  Lancelot  or  The  Parted  Lovers 
was  intended  to  refute  that  assertion  at  once  and 
forever ;  an  assertion  which  Rebecca  regarded 
(quite  truly)  as  untenable,  though  why  she  cer- 
tainly never  could  have  explained.  Unfortunately 
-    90 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT  BOOK 

Lancelot  was  a  poor  missionary,  quite  unfitted  for 
the  high  achievements  to  which  he  was  destined 
by  the  youthful  novelist,  and  Uncle  Jerry,  though 
a  stage-driver  and  no  reading  man,  at  once  per- 
ceived the  flabbiness  and  transparency  of  the 
Parted  Lovers  the  moment  they  were  held  up  to 
his  inspection. 

"  You  see  Riverboro  people  will  make  a  story !  " 
asserted  Rebecca  triumphantly  as  she  finished  her 
reading  and  folded  the  paper.  "And  it  all  came 
from  my  noticing  the  river  drivers'  tracks  by  the 
roadside,  and  wondering  about  them  ;  and  wonder- 
ing always  makes  stories  ;  the  minister  says  so." 

"  Ye-es,"  allowed  Uncle  Jerry  reflectively,  tip- 
ping his  chair  back  against  the  apple-tree  and 
forcing  his  slow  mind  to  violent  and  instantaneous 
action,  for  Rebecca  was  his  pride  and  joy ;  a  person, 
in  his  opinion,  of  superhuman  talent,  one  therefore 
to  be  "whittled  into  shape"  if  occasion  demanded. 

"  It 's  a  Riverboro  story,  sure  enough,  because 
you've  got  the  river  and  the  bridge  and  the  hill 
and  the  drivers  all  right  there  in  it ;  but  there 's 
something  awful  queer  'bout  it ;  the  folks  don't  act 
Riverboro,  and  don't  talk  Riverboro,  'cordin'  to  my 
notions.    I  call  it  a  reg'lar  book  story." 

"But,"  objected  Rebecca,  "the  people  in  Cin- 
derella didn't  act  like  us,  and  you  thought  that  was 
a  beautiful  story  when  I  told  it  to  you." 
91 


NEW   CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

"I  know,"  replied  Uncle  Jerry,  gaining  elo- 
quence in  the  heat  of  argument.  "  They  did  n't  act 
like  us,  but 't  any  rate  they  acted  like  'emselves ! 
Somehow  they  was  all  of  a  piece.  Cinderella  was  a 
little  too  good,  mebbe,  and  the  sisters  was  most 
too  thunderin'  bad  to  live  on  the  face  o'  the  earth, 
and  that  fayry  old  lady  that  kep'  the  punkin'  coach 
up  her  sleeve  —  well,  anyhow,  you  jest  believe  that 
punkin'  coach,  rats,  mice,  and  all,  when  you  're 
hearin'  'bout  it,  'fore  ever  you  stop  to  think  it 
ain't  so. 

"  I  don'  know  how  't  is,  but  the  folks  in  that  Cin- 
derella story  seem  to  match  together  somehow; 
they're  all  pow'ful  onlikely  —  the  prince  feller  with 
the  glass  slipper,  and  the  hull  bunch  ;  but  jest  the 
same  you  kind  o'  gulp  'em  all  down  in  a  lump. 
But  land,  Rebecky,  nobody  'd  swaller  that  there 
village  maiden  o'  your'n,  and  as  for  what's-his- 
name  Littlefield,  that  come  out  o'  them  bushes, 
such  a  feller  never  'd  'a'  be'n  in  bushes !  No, 
Rebecky,  you  're  the  smartest  little  critter  there 
is  in  this  township,  and  you  beat  your  Uncle  Jerry 
all  holler  when  it  comes  to  usin'  a  lead  pencil,  but 
I  say  that  ain't  no  true  Riverboro  story !  Look  at 
the  way  they  talk!  What  was  that  'bout  being 
'betrothed'?" 

"  Betrothed  is  a  genteel  word  for  engaged  to  be 
married,"   explained   the   crushed   and   chastened 

92 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

author ;  and  it  was  fortunate  the  doting  old  man 
did  not  notice  her  eyes  in  the  twilight,  or  he  might 
have  known  that  tears  were  not  far  away. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  then;  I'm  as  ignorant 
as  Cooper's  cow  when  it  comes  to  the  dictionary. 
How  about  what's-his-name  callin'  the  girl  'Nay- 
sweet'?" 

"  I  thought  myself  that  sounded  foolish,"  con- 
fessed Rebecca ;  "  but  it 's  what  the  Doctor  calls 
Cora  when  he  tries  to  persuade  her  not  to  quarrel 
with  his  mother  who  comes  to  live  with  them.  I 
know  they  don't  say  it  in  Riverboro  or  Temperance, 
but  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  Boston  talk." 

"  Well,  it  ain't !  "  asserted  Mr.  Cobb  decisively. 
"  I  've  druv  Boston  men  up  in  the  stage  from  Mill- 
town  many  's  the  time,  and  none  of  'em  ever  said 
Naysweet  to  me,  nor  nothin'  like  it.  They  talked 
like  folks,  every  mother's  son  of  'em  !  If  I  'd  'a'  had 
that  what's-his-name  on  the  '  harricane  deck'  o'  the 
stage  and  he  tried  any  naysweetin'  on  me,  I  'd  'a' 
pitched  him  into  the  cornfield,  side  o'  the  road.  I 
guess  you  ain't  growed  up  enough  for  that  kind  of 
a  story,  Rebecky,  for  your  poetry  can't  be  beat  in 
York  County,  that 's  sure,  and  your  compositions 
'are  good  enough  to  read  out  loud  in  town  meetin' 
any  day !" 

Rebecca  brightened  up  a  little  and  bade  the  old 
couple  her  usual  affectionate  good-night,  but  she 
93 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

descended  the  hill  in  a  saddened  mood.  When  she 
reached  the  bridge  the  sun,  a  ball  of  red  fire,  was 
setting  behind  Squire  Bean's  woods.  As  she  looked, 
it  shone  full  on  the  broad,  still  bosom  of  the  river, 
and  for  one  perfect  instant  the  trees  on  the  shores 
were  reflected,  all  swimming  in  a  sea  of  pink. 
Leaning  over  the  rail,  she  watched  the  light  fade 
from  crimson  to  carmine,  from  carmine  to  rose, 
from  rose  to  amber,  and  from  amber  to  gray.  Then 
withdrawing  Lancelot  or  the  Parted  Lovers  from 
her  apron  pocket,  she  tore  the  pages  into  bits  and 
dropped  them  into  the  water  below  with  a  sigh. 

"  Uncle  Jerry  never  said  a  word  about  the  end- 
ing !  "  she  thought ;  "  and  that  was  so  nice  ! " 

And  she  was  right ;  but  while  Uncle  Jerry  was 
an  illuminating  critic  when  it  came  to  the  actions 
and  language  of  his  Riverboro  neighbors,  he  had  no 
power  to  direct  the  young  mariner  when  she  "  fol- 
lowed the  gleam,"  and  used  her  imagination. 

OUR  SECRET  SOCIETY 

November,  187-. 

Our  Secret  Society  has  just  had  a  splendid  pic- 
nic in  Candace  Milliken's  barn. 

Our  name  is  the  B.  O.  S.  S.,  and  not  a  single  boy 
in  the  village  has  been  able  to  guess  it.  It  means 
Braid  Over  Shoulder  Society,  and  that  is  the  sign. 
All  the  members  wear  one  of  their  braids  over  the 

94 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

right  shoulder  in  front ;  the  president's  tied  with 
red  ribbon  (I  am  the  president)  and  all  the  rest 
tied  with  blue. 

To  attract  the  attention  of  another  member  when 
in  company  or  at  a  public  place  we  take  the  braid 
between  the  thumb  and  little  finger  and  stand 
carelessly  on  one  leg.  This  is  the  Secret  Signal 
and  the  password  is  Sobb  (B.  O.  S.  S.  spelled  back- 
wards) which  was  my  idea  and  is  thought  rather 
uncommon. 

One  of  the  rules  of  the  B.  O.  S.  S.  is  that  any 
member  may  be  required  to  tell  her  besetting  sin 
at  any  meeting,  if  asked  to  do  so  by  a  majority  of 
the  members. 

This  was  Candace  Milliken's  idea  and  much  op- 
posed by  everybody,  but  when  it  came  to  a  vote  so 
many  of  the  girls  were  afraid  of  offending  Candace 
that  they  agreed  because  there  was  nobody  else's 
father  and  mother  who  would  let  us  picnic  in  their 
barn  and  use  their  plow,  harrow,  grindstone,  sleigh, 
carryall,  pung,  sled,  and  wheelbarrow,  which  we  did 
and  injured  hardly  anything. 

They  asked  me  to  tell  my  besetting  sin  at  the 
very  first  meeting,  and  it  nearly  killed  me  to  do  it 
because  it  is  such  a  common  greedy  one.  It  is  that 
I  can't  bear  to  call  the  other  girls  when  I  have 
found  a  thick  spot  when  we  are  out  berrying  in  the 
summer  time. 

95 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

After  I  confessed,  which  made  me  dreadfully 
ashamed,  every  one  of  the  girls  seemed  surprised 
and  said  they  had  never  noticed  that  one  but  had 
each  thought  of  something  very  different  that  I 
would  be  sure  to  think  was  my  besetting  sin.  Then 
Emma  Jane  said  that  rather  than  tell  hers  she 
would  resign  from  the  Society  and  miss  the  picnic. 
So  it  made  so  much  trouble  that  Candace  gave  up. 
We  struck  out  the  rule  from  the  constitution  and 
I  had  told  my  sin  for  nothing. 

The  reason  we  named  ourselves  the  B.  O.  S.  S. 
is,  that  Minnie  Smellie  has  had  her  head  shaved 
after  scarlet  fever  and  has  no  braid,  so  she  can't 
be  a  member. 

I  don't  want  her  for  a  member  but  I  can't  be 
happy  thinking  she  will  feel  slighted,  and  it  takes 
away  half  the  pleasure  of  belonging  to  the  Society 
myself  and  being  president. 

That,  I  think,  is  the  principal  trouble  about  doing 
mean  and  unkind  things ;  that  you  can't  do  wrong 
and  feel  right,  or  be  bad  and  feel  good.  If  you 
only  could  you  could  do  anything  that  came  into 
your  mind  yet  always  be  happy. 

Minnie  Smellie  spoils  everything  she  comes  into 
but  I  suppose  we  other  girls  must  either  have  our 
hair  shaved  and  call  ourselves  The  Baldheadians 
or  let  her  be  some  kind  of  a  special  officer  in  the 
B.  O.  S.  S. 

96 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

She  might  be  the  B.  I.  T.  U.  D.  member  (Braid 
in  the  Upper  Drawer),  for  there  is  where  Mrs. 
Smellie  keeps  it  now  that  it  is  cut  off. 

WINTER  THOUGHTS 

March,  187-. 

It  is  not  such  a  cold  day  for  March  and  I  am  up 
in  the  barn  chamber  with  my  coat  and  hood  on 
and  Aunt  Jane's  waterproof  and  my  mittens. 

After  I  do  three  pages  I  am  going  to  hide  away 
this  book  in  the  haymow  till  spring. 

Perhaps  they  get  made  into  icicles  on  the  way 
but  I  do  not  seem  to  have  any  thoughts  in  the 
winter  time.  The  barn  chamber  is  full  of  thoughts 
in  warm  weather.  The  sky  gives  them  to  me,  and 
the  trees  and  flowers,  and  the  birds,  and  the  river ; 
but  now  it  is  always  gray  and  nipping,  the  branches 
are  bare  and  the  river  is  frozen. 

It  is  too  cold  to  write  in  my  bedroom  but  while 
we  still  kept  an  open  fire  I  had  a  few  thoughts,  but 
now  there  is  an  air-tight  stove  in  the  dining  room 
where  we  sit,  and  we  seem  so  close  together,  Aunt 
Miranda,  Aunt  Jane  and  I  that  I  don't  like  to 
write  in  my  book  for  fear  they  will  ask  me  to  read 
out  loud  my  secret  thoughts. 

I  have  just  read  over  the  first  part  of  my  Thought 
Book  and  I  have  outgrown  it  all,  just  exactly  as  I 
have  outgrown  my  last  year's  drab  cashmere. 
97 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

It  is  very  queer  how  anybody  can  change  so  fast 
in  a  few  months,  but  I  remember  that  Emma  Jane's 
cat  had  kittens  the  day  my  book  was  bought  at 
Watson's  store.  Mrs.  Perkins  kept  the  prettiest 
white  one,  Abijah  Flagg  drowning  all  the  others. 

It  seems  strange  to  me  that  cats  will  go  on 
having  kittens  when  they  know  what  becomes  of 
them !  We  were  very  sad  about  it,  but  Mrs.  Per- 
kins said  it  was  the  way  of  the  world  and  how 
things  had  to  be. 

I  cannot  help  being  glad  that  they  do  not  do  the 
same  with  children,  or  John  and  Jenny  Mira  Mark 
and  me  would  all  have  had  stones  tied  to  our  necks 
and  been  dropped  into  the  deepest  part  of  Sunny 
Brook,  for  Hannah  and  Fanny  are  the  only  truly 
handsome  ones  in  the  family. 

Mrs.  Perkins  says  I  dress  up  well,  but  never 
being  dressed  up  it  does  not  matter  much.  At  least 
they  did  n't  wait  to  dress  up  the  kittens  to  see  how 
they  would  improve,  before  drowning  them,  but 
decided  right  away. 

Emma  Jane's  kitten  that  was  born  the  same  day 
this  book  was  is  now  quite  an  old  cat  who  knows 
the  way  of  the  world  herself,  and  how  things  have 
to  be,  for  she  has  had  one  batch  of  kittens  drowned 
already. 

So  perhaps  it  is  not  strange  that  my  Thought 
Book  seems  so  babyish  and  foolish  to  me  when  I 

98 


REBECCA'S   THOUGHT   BOOK 

think  of  all  I  have  gone  through  and  the  millions 
of  things  I  have  learned,  and  how  much  better  I 
spell  than  I  did  ten  months  ago. 

My  fingers  are  cold  through  the  mittens,  so 
good-bye  dear  Thought  Book,  friend  of  my  child- 
hood, now  so  far  far  behind  me  ! 

I  will  hide  you  in  the  haymow  where  you  '11  be 
warm  and  cosy  all  the  long  winter  and  where 
nobody  can  find  you  again  in  the  summer  time  but 
your  affectionate  author, 

Rebecca  Rowena  Randall. 


Fourth  Chronicle 
A  TRAGEDY   IN  MILLINERY 


EMMA  Jane  Perkins's  new  winter  dress  was  a 
blue  and  green  Scotch  plaid  poplin,  trimmed 
with  narrow  green  velvet-ribbon  and  steel 
nail-heads.  She  had  a  gray  jacket  of  thick  furry 
cloth  with  large  steel  buttons  up  the  front,  a  pair  of 
green  kid  gloves,  and  a  gray  felt  hat  with  an  encir- 
cling band  of  bright  green  feathers.  The  band  be- 
gan in  front  with  a  bird's  head  and  ended  behind 
with  a  bird's  tail,  and  angels  could  have  desired  no 
more  beautiful  toilette.  That  was  her  opinion,  and 
it  was  shared  to  the  full  by  Rebecca. 

But  Emma  Jane,  as  Rebecca  had  once  described 
her  to  Mr.  Adam  Ladd,  was  a  rich  blacksmith's 
daughter,  and  she,  Rebecca,  was  a  little  half-orphan 
from  a  mortgaged  farm  "  up  Temperance  way,"  de- 
pendent upon  her  spinster  aunts  for  board,  clothes, 
and  schooling.  Scotch  plaid  poplins  were  mani- 
festly not  for  her,  but  dark-colored  woolen  stuffs 
were,  and  mittens,  and  last  winter's  coats  and  furs. 
And  how  about  hats  ?  Was  there  hope  in  store 
for  her  there  ?  she  wondered,  as  she  walked  home 
ioo 


A  TRAGEDY   IN  MILLINERY 

from  the  Perkins  house,  full  of  admiration  for 
Emma  Jane's  winter  outfit,  and  loyally  trying  to 
keep  that  admiration  free  from  wicked  envy.  Her 
red-winged  black  hat  was  her  second  best,  and  al- 
though it  was  shabby  she  still  liked  it,  but  it  would 
never  do  for  church,  even  in  Aunt  Miranda's 
strange  and  never-to-be-comprehended  views  of 
suitable  raiment. 

There  was  a  brown  felt  turban  in  existence,  if 
one  could  call  it  existence  when  it  had  been  rained 
on,  snowed  on,  and  hailed  on  for  two  seasons ;  but 
the  trimmings  had  at  any  rate  perished  quite  off 
the  face  of  the  earth,  that  was  one  comfort ! 

Emma  Jane  had  said,  rather  indiscreetly,  that  at 
the  village  milliner's  at  Milliken's  Mills  there  was 
a  perfectly  elegant  pink  breast  to  be  had,  a  breast 
that  began  in  a  perfectly  elegant  solferino  and  ter- 
minated in  a  perfectly  elegant  magenta ;  two  colors 
much  in  vogue  at  that  time.  If  the  old  brown  hat 
was  to  be  her  portion  yet  another  winter,  would 
Aunt  Miranda  conceal  its  deficiencies  from  a  carp- 
ing world  beneath  the  shaded  solferino  breast  ? 
Would  she,  that  was  the  question  ? 

Filled  with  these  perplexing  thoughts,  Rebecca 
entered  the  brick  house,  hung  up  her  hood  in  the 
entry,  and  went  into  the  dining-room. 

Miss  Jane  was  not  there,  but  Aunt  Miranda  sat 
by  the  window  with  her  lap  full  of  sewing  things, 

IOI 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

and  a  chair  piled  with  pasteboard  boxes  by  her  side. 
In  one  hand  was  the  ancient,  battered,  brown  felt 
turban,  and  in  the  other  were  the  orange  and  black 
porcupine  quills  from  Rebecca's  last  summer's  hat ; 
from  the  hat  of  the  summer  before  that,  and 
the  summer  before  that,  and  so  on  back  to  prehis- 
toric ages  of  which  her  childish  memory  kept  no 
specific  record,  though  she  was  sure  that  Temper- 
ance and  Riverboro  society  did.  Truly  a  sight  to 
chill  the  blood  of  any  eager  young  dreamer  who 
had  been  looking  at  gayer  plumage ! 

Miss  Sawyer  glanced  up  for  a  second  with  a  sat- 
isfied expression  and  then  bent  her  eyes  again  upon 
her  work. 

"  If  I  was  going  to  buy  a  hat  trimming,"  she  said, 
"I  couldn't  select  anything  better  or  more  eco- 
nomical than  these  quills  !  Your  mother  had  them 
when  she  was  married,  and  you  wore  them  the  day 
you  come  to  the  brick  house  from  the  farm ;  and 
I  said  to  myself  then  that  they  looked  kind  of  out- 
landish, but  I  've  grown  to  like  'em  now  I  've  got 
used  to  'em.  You've  been  here  for  goin'  on  two 
years  and  they  've  hardly  be'n  out  o'  wear,  summer 
or  winter,  more  'n  a  month  to  a  time !  I  declare 
they  do  beat  all  for  service !  It  don't  seem  as  if 
your  mother  could  'a'  chose  'em,  —  Aurelia  was  al- 
ways such  a  poor  buyer!  The  black  spills  are  'bout 
as  good  as  new,  but  the  orange  ones  are  gittin'  a 
1 02 


A  TRAGEDY   IN   MILLINERY 

little  mite  faded  and  shabby.  I  wonder  if  I  could  n't 
dip  all  of  'em  in  shoe  blackin'  ?  It  seems  real  queer 
to  put  a  porcupine  into  hat  trimmin',  though  I  de- 
clare I  don't  know  jest  what  the  animiles  are  like, 
it 's  be'n  so  long  sence  I  looked  at  the  pictures  of 
'em  in  a  geography.  I  always  thought  their  quills 
stood  out  straight  and  angry,  but  these  kind  o'  curls 
round  some  at  the  ends,  and  that  makes  'em  stand 
the  wind  better.  How  do  you  like  'em  on  the 
brown  felt  ? "  she  asked,  inclining  her  head  in  a 
discriminating  attitude  and  poising  them  awkwardly 
on  the  hat  with  her  work-stained  hand. 

How  did  she  like  them  on  the  brown  felt  indeed  ? 

Miss  Sawyer  had  not  been  looking  at  Rebecca, 
but  the  child's  eyes  were  flashing,  her  bosom  heav- 
ing, and  her  cheeks  glowing  with  sudden  rage  and 
despair.  All  at  once  something  happened.  She 
forgot  that  she  was  speaking  to  an  older  person ; 
forgot  that  she  was  dependent ;  forgot  everything 
but  her  disappointment  at  losing  the  solferino 
breast,  remembering  nothing  but  the  enchanting, 
dazzling  beauty  of  Emma  Jane  Perkins's  winter 
outfit ;  and,  suddenly,  quite  without  warning,  she 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  protest. 

"  I  will  not  wear  those  hateful  porcupine  quills 

again  this  winter !   I  will  not !   It 's  wicked,  wicked 

to  expect  me  to  !    Oh  !  how  I  wish  there  never  had 

been  any  porcupines  in  the  world,  or  that  all  of 

103 


NEW  CHRONICLES    OF  REBECCA 

them  had  died  before  silly,  hateful  people  ever 
thought  of  trimming  hats  with  them  !  They  curl 
round  and  tickle  my  ear !  They  blow  against  my 
cheek  and  sting  it  like  needles  !  They  do  look  out- 
landish, you  said  so  yourself  a  minute  ago.  No- 
body ever  had  any  but  only  just  me !  The  only 
porcupine  was  made  into  the  only  quills  for  me  and 
nobody  else !  I  wish  instead  of  sticking  out  of  the 
nasty  beasts,  that  they  stuck  into  them,  same  as 
they  do  into  my  cheek !  I  suffer,  suffer,  suffer, 
wearing  them  and  hating  them,  and  they  will  last 
forever  and  forever,  and  when  I  'm  dead  and  can't 
help  myself,  somebody  '11  rip  them  out  of  my  last 
year's  hat  and  stick  them  on  my  head,  and  I  '11  be 
buried  in  them  !  Well,  when  /  am  buried  they  will 
be,  that 's  one  good  thing  !  Oh,  if  I  ever  have  a 
child  I  '11  let  her  choose  her  own  feathers  and  not 
make  her  wear  ugly  things  like  pigs'  bristles  and 
porcupine  quills  !  " 

With  this  lengthy  tirade  Rebecca  vanished  like 
a  meteor,  through  the  door  and  down  the  street, 
while  Miranda  Sawyer  gasped  for  breath,  and  prayed 
to  Heaven  to  help  her  understand  such  human 
whirlwinds  as  this  Randall  niece  of  hers. 

This  was  at  three  o'clock,  and  at  half-past  three 
Rebecca  was  kneeling  on  the  rag  carpet  with  her 
head  in  her  aunt's  apron,  sobbing  her  contrition. 

"  Oh  !   Aunt  Miranda,  do  forgive  me  if  you  can. 
104 


A  TRAGEDY   IN  MILLINERY 

It 's  the  only  time  I  've  been  bad  for  months !  You 
know  it  is !  You  know  you  said  last  week  I  had  n't 
been  any  trouble  lately.  Something  broke  inside 
of  me  and  came  tumbling  out  of  my  mouth  in  ugly 
words !  The  porcupine  quills  make  me  feel  just  as 
a  bull  does  when  he  sees  a  red  cloth ;  nobody 
understands  how  I  suffer  with  them  ! " 

Miranda  Sawyer  had  learned  a  few  lessons  in  the 
last  two  years,  lessons  which  were  making  her  (at 
least  on  her  "  good  days  ")  a  trifle  kinder,  and  at 
any  rate  a  juster  woman  than  she  used  to  be.  When 
she  alighted  on  the  wrong  side  of  her  four-poster 
in  the  morning,  or  felt  an  extra  touch  of  rheuma- 
tism, she  was  still  grim  and  unyielding ;  but  some- 
times a  curious  sort  of  melting  process  seemed 
to  go  on  within  her,  when  her  whole  bony  structure 
softened,  and  her  eyes  grew  less  vitreous.  At  such 
moments  Rebecca  used  to  feel  as  if  a  superincum- 
bent iron  pot  had  been  lifted  off  her  head,  allowing 
her  to  breathe  freely  and  enjoy  the  sunshine. 

"  Well,"  she  said  finally,  after  staring  first  at 
Rebecca  and  then  at  the  porcupine  quills,  as  if  to 
gain  some  insight  into  the  situation,  — "  well,  I 
never,  sence  I  was  born  int'  the  world,  heerd  such  a 
speech  as  you  've  spoke,  an'  I  guess  there  probably 
never  was  one.  You  'd  better  tell  the  minister  what 
you  said  and  see  what  he  thinks  of  his  prize  Sun- 
day-school scholar.  But  I  'm  too  old  and  tired  to 
K05 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

scold  and  fuss,  and  try  to  train  you  same  as  I  did 
at  first.  You  can  punish  yourself  this  time,  like  you 
used  to.  Go  fire  something  down  the  well,  same  as 
you  did  your  pink  parasol !  You  've  apologized  and 
we  won't  say  no  more  about  it  to-day,  but  I  expect 
you  to  show  by  extry  good  conduct  how  sorry  you 
be!  You  care  altogether  too  much  about  your 
looks  and  your  clothes  for  a  child,  and  you  've  got  a 
temper  that  '11  certainly  land  you  in  state's  prison 
some  o'  these  days  ! " 

Rebecca  wiped  her  eyes  and  laughed  aloud.  "  No, 
no,  Aunt  Miranda,  it  won't,  really  !  That  was  n't 
temper ;  I  don't  get  angry  with  people ;  but  only, 
once  in  a  long  while,  with  things ;  like  those,  — 
cover  them  up  quick  before  I  begin  again  !  I'  m  all 
right !    Shower 's  over,  sun 's  out ! " 

Miss  Miranda  looked  at  her  searchingly  and  un- 
comprehendingly.  Rebecca's  state  of  mind  came 
perilously  near  to  disease,  she  thought. 

"  Have  you  seen  me  buyin'  any  new  bunnits,  or 
your  Aunt  Jane  ? "  she  asked  cuttingly.  "  Is  there 
any  particular  reason  why  you  should  dress  better 
than  your  elders  ?  You  might  as  well  know  that 
we  're  short  of  cash  just  now,  your  Aunt  Jane  and 
me,  and  have  no  intention  of  riggin'  you  out  like  a 
Milltown  fact'ry  girl." 

"  Oh-h !  "  cried  Rebecca,  the  quick  tears  start- 
ing again  to  her  eyes  and  the  color  fading  out 


A  TRAGEDY  IN   MILLINERY 

of  her  cheeks,  as  she  scrambled  up  from  her  knees 
to  a  seat  on  the  sofa  beside  her  aunt.  "  Oh-h ! 
how  ashamed  I  am  !  Quick,  sew  those  quills  on  to 
the  brown  turban  while  I  'm  good  !  If  I  can't  stand 
them  I  '11  make  a  neat  little  gingham  bag  and  slip 
over  them ! " 

And  so  the  matter  ended,  not  as  it  customarily 
did,  with  cold  words  on  Miss  Miranda's  part  and 
bitter  feelings  on  Rebecca's,  but  with  a  gleam  of 
mutual  understanding. 

Mrs.  Cobb,  who  was  a  master  hand  at  coloring, 
dipped  the  offending  quills  in  brown  dye  and  left 
them  to  soak  in  it  all  night,  not  only  making  them 
a  nice  warm  color,  but  somewhat  weakening  their 
rocky  spines,  so  that  they  were  not  quite  as  ram- 
pantly hideous  as  before,  in  Rebecca's  opinion. 

Then  Mrs.  Perkins  went  to  her  bandbox  in  the 
attic  and  gave  Miss  Dearborn  some  pale  blue  vel- 
vet, with  which  she  bound  the  brim  of  the  brown 
turban  and  made  a  wonderful  rosette,  out  of  which 
the  porcupine's  defensive  armor  sprang,  buoyantly 
and  gallantly,  like  the  plume  of  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Rebecca  was  resigned,  if  not  greatly  com- 
forted, but  she  had  grace  enough  to  conceal  her 
feelings,  now  that  she  knew  economy  was  at  the 
root  of  some  of  her  aunt's  decrees  in  matters  of 
dress ;  and  she  managed  to  forget  the  solferino 
breast,  save  in  sleep,  where  a  vision  of  it  had  a  way 
107 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

of  appearing  to  her,  dangling  from  the  ceiling,  and 
dazzling  her  so  with  its  rich  color  that  she  used 
to  hope  the  milliner  would  sell  it  that  she  might 
never  be  tempted  with  it  when  she  passed  the 
shop  window. 

One  day,  not  long  afterward,  Miss  Miranda  bor- 
rowed Mr.  Perkins's  horse  and  wagon  and  took  Re- 
becca with  her  on  a  drive  to  Union,  to  see  about 
some  sausage  meat  and  head  cheese.  She  intended 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Cobb,  order  a  load  of  pine  wood 
from  Mr.  Strout  on  the  way,  and  leave  some  rags 
for  a  rug  with  old  Mrs.  Pease,  so  that  the  journey 
could  be  made  as  profitable  as  possible,  consistent 
with  the  loss  of  time  and  the  wear  and  tear  on  her 
second-best  black  dress. 

The  red-winged  black  hat  was  forcibly  removed 
from  Rebecca's  head  just  before  starting,  and  the 
nightmare  turban  substituted. 

"  You  might  as  well  begin  to  wear  it  first  as 
last,"  remarked  Miranda,  while  Jane  stood  in  the 
side  door  and  sympathized  secretly  with  Rebecca. 

"  I  will !  "  said  Rebecca,  ramming  the  stiff  turban 
down  on  her  head  with  a  vindictive  grimace,  and 
snapping  the  elastic  under  her  long  braids  ;  "  but 
it  makes  me  think  of  what  Mr.  Robinson  said  when 
the  minister  told  him  his  mother-in-law  would  ride 
in  the  same  buggy  with  him  at  his  wife's  funeral." 

"  I  can't  see  how  any  speech  of  Mr.  Robinson's* 
108 


A   TRAGEDY   IN   MILLINERY 

made  years  an'  years  ag«J,  can  have  anything  to  do 
with  wearin'  your  turban  down  to  Union,"  said  Mi- 
randa, settling  the  lap  robe  over  her  knees. 

"Well,  it  can;  because  he  said:  'Have  it  that 
way,  then,  but  it  '11  spile  the  hull  blamed  trip  for 
me!'" 

Jane  closed  the  door  suddenly,  partly  because 
she  experienced  a  desire  to  smile  (a  desire  she  had 
not  felt  for  years  before  Rebecca  came  to  the  brick 
house  to  live),  and  partly  because  she  had  no  wish 
to  overhear  what  her  sister  would  say  when  she 
took  in  the  full  significance  of  Rebecca's  anecdote, 
which  was  a  favorite  one  with  Mr.  Perkins. 

It  was  a  cold  blustering  day,  with  a  high  wind 
that  promised  to  bring  an  early  fall  of  snow.  The 
trees  were  stripped  bare  of  leaves,  the  ground  was 
hard,  and  the  wagon  wheels  rattled  noisily  over  the 
thank-you-ma'ams. 

"  I  'm  glad  I  wore  my  Paisley  shawl  over  my 
cloak,"  said  Miranda.  "  Be  you  warm  enough,  Re- 
becca ?  Tie  that  white  rigolette  tighter  round  your 
neck.  The  wind  fairly  blows  through  my  bones.  I 
most  wish  't  we  'd  waited  till  a  pleasanter  day,  for 
this  Union  road  is  all  up  hill  or  down,  and  we  shan't 
get  over  the  ground  fast,  it 's  so  rough.  Don't  for- 
get, when  you  go  into  Scott's,  to  say  I  want  all  the 
trimmin's  when  they  send  me  the  pork,  for  mebbe 
I  can  try  out  a  little  mite  o'  lard.  The  last  load  o' 
109 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

pine's  gone  tumble  quick;  I  must  see  if  'Bijah 
Fiagg  can't  get  us  some  cut-rounds  at  the  Mills, 
when  he  hauls  for  Squire  Bean  next  time.  Keep 
your  mind  on  your  drivin',  Rebecca,  and  don't  look 
at  the  trees  and  the  sky  so  much.  It 's  the  same 
sky  and  same  trees  that  have  been  here  right  along. 
Go  awful  slow  down  this  hill  and  walk  the  hoss  over 
Cook's  Brook  bridge,  for  I  always  suspicion  it 's 
goin'  to  break  down  under  me,  an'  I  should  n't  want 
to  be  dropped  into  that  fast  runnin'  water  this  cold 
day.  It'll  be  froze  stiff  by  this  time  next  week. 
Had  n't  you  better  get  out  and  lead  "  — 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  very  possibly  not 
vital,  but  at  any  rate  it  was  never  completed,  for  in 
the  middle  of  the  bridge  a  fierce  gale  of  wind  took 
Miss  Miranda's  Paisley  shawl  and  blew  it  over  her 
head.  The  long  heavy  ends  whirled  in  opposite  di- 
rections and  wrapped  themselves  tightly  about  her 
wavering  bonnet.  Rebecea  had  the  whip  and  the 
reins,  and  in  trying  to  rescue  her  struggling  aunt 
could  not  steady  her  own  hat,  which  was  suddenly 
torn  from  her  head  and  tossed  against  the  bridge 
rail,  where  it  trembled  and  flapped  for  an  instant. 

"  My  hat !  oh  !  Aunt  Miranda,  my  hateful  hat ! " 
cried  Rebecca,  never  remembering  at  the  instant 
how  often  she  had  prayed  that  the  "  fretful  por- 
cupine "  might  some  time  vanish  in  this  violent 
manner,  since  it  refused  to  die  a  natural  death. 
no 


A   TRAGEDY   IN  MILLINERY 

She  had  already  stopped  the  horse,  so,  giving  her 
aunt's  shawl  one  last  desperate  twitch,  she  slipped 
out  between  the  wagon  wheels,  and  darted  in  the 
direction  of  the  hated  object,  the  loss  of  which  had 
dignified  it  with  a  temporary  value  and  importance. 

The  stiff  brown  turban  rose  in  the  air,  then 
dropped  and  flew  along  the  bridge ;  Rebecca  pur- 
sued ;  it  danced  along  and  stuck  between  two  of 
the  railings  ;  Rebecca  flew  after  it,  her  long  braids 
floating  in  the  wind. 

"  Come  back !  Come  back !  Don't  leave  me 
alone  with  the  team.  I  won't  have  it !  Come  back, 
and  leave  your  hat !  " 

Miranda  had  at  length  extricated  herself  from 
the  submerging  shawl,  but  she  was  so  blinded  by 
the  wind,  and  so  confused  that  she  did  not  measure 
the  financial  loss  involved  in  her  commands. 

Rebecca  heard,  but  her  spirit  being  in  arms,  she 
made  one  more  mad  scramble  for  the  vagrant  hat, 
which  now  seemed  possessed  with  an  evil  spirit,  for 
it  flew  back  and  forth,  and  bounded  here  and  there, 
like  a  living  thing,  finally  distinguishing  itself  by 
blowing  between  the  horse's  front  and  hind  legs, 
Rebecca  trying  to  circumvent  it  by  going  around 
the  wagon,  and  meeting  it  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  no  use;  as  she  darted  from  behind  the 
wheels  the  wind  gave  the  hat  an  extra  whirl,  and 
scurrying  in  the  opposite  direction  it  soared  above 
in 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

the  bridge  rail  and  disappeared  into  the  rapid  water 
below. 

"  Get  in  again  ! "  cried  Miranda,  holding  on  her 
bonnet  "  You  done  your  best  and  it  can't  be  helped, 
I  only  wish 't  I  'd  let  you  wear  your  black  hat  as  you 
wanted  to ;  and  I  wish  't  we  'd  never  come  such  a 
day !  The  shawl  has  broke  the  stems  of  the  velvet 
geraniums  in  my  bonnet,  and  the  wind  has  blowed 
away  my  shawl  pin  and  my  back  comb.  I  'd  like 
to  give  up  and  turn  right  back  this  minute,  but 
I  don't  like  to  borrer  Perkins's  hoss  again  this 
month.  When  we  get  up  in  the  woods  you  can 
smooth  your  hair  down  and  tie  the  rigolette  over 
your  head  and  settle  what 's  left  of  my  bonnet ; 
it  '11  be  an  expensive  errant,  this  will ! " 

******** 

II 

It  was  not  till  next  morning  that  Rebecca's  heart 
really  began  its  song  of  thanksgiving.  Her  Aunt 
Miranda  announced  at  breakfast,  that  as  Mrs.  Per- 
kins was  going  to  Milliken's  Mills,  Rebecca  might 
go  too,  and  buy  a  serviceable  hat. 

"  You  must  n't  pay  over  two  dollars  and  a  half, 
and  you  mustn't  get  the  pink  bird  without  Mrs. 
Perkins  says,  and  the  milliner  says,  that  it  won't 
fade  nor  moult.  Don't  buy  a  light-colored  felt  be- 
cause you  '11  get  sick  of  it  in  two  or  three  years, 

112 


A   TRAGEDY   IN   MILLINERY 

same  as  you  did  the  brown  one.  I  always  liked  the 
shape  of  the  brown  one,  and  you'll  never  get  an- 
other trimmin'  that  '11  wear  you  like  them  quills." 

"I  hope  not!"  thought  Rebecca. 

"  If  you  had  put  your  elastic  under  your  chin, 
same  as  you  used  to,  and  not  worn  it  behind  because 
you  think  it 's  more  grown-up  an'  fash'onable,  the 
wind  never  'd  'a'  took  the  hat  off  your  head,  and  you 
wouldn't  'a'  lost  it;  but  the  mischief's  done  and 
you  can  go  right  over  to  Mis'  Perkins  now,  so  you 
won't  miss  her  nor  keep  her  waitin'.  The  two  dol- 
lars and  a  half  is  in  an  envelope  side  o'  the  clock." 

Rebecca  swallowed  the  last  spoonful  of  picked-up 
codfish  on  her  plate,  wiped  her  lips,  and  rose  from 
her  chair  happier  than  the  seraphs  in  Paradise. 

The  porcupine  quills  had  disappeared  from  her 
life,  and  without  any  fault  or  violence  on  her  part. 
She  was  wholly  innocent  and  virtuous,  but  never- 
theless she  was  going  to  have  a  new  hat  with  the 
solferino  breast,  should  the  adored  object  prove, 
under  rigorous  examination,  to  be  practically  inde- 
structible. 

"  Whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad, 
How  many  hats  I  '11  see ; 
But  if  they  're  trimmed  with  hedgehog  quills 
They  '11  not  belong  to  me  !  " 

So  she  improvised,  secretly  and  ecstatically,  as 
she  went  towards  the  side  entry. 
"3 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"There's  'Bijah  Flagg  drivin'  in,"  said  Miss 
Miranda,  going  to  the  window.  "  Step  out  and  see 
what  he  's  got,  Jane ;  some  passel  from  the  Squire, 
I  guess.  It 's  a  paper  bag  and  it  may  be  a  punkin, 
though  he  wouldn't  wrop  up  a  punkin,  come  to 
think  of  it !  Shet  the  dinin'  room  door,  Jane ;  it 's 
turrible  drafty.  Make  haste,  for  the  Squire's  hoss 
never  stan's  still  a  minute  'cept  when  he  's  goin' ! " 

Abijah  Flagg  alighted  and  approached  the  side 
door  with  a  grin. 

"  Guess  what  I  've  got  for  ye,  Rebecky  ?  " 

No  throb  of  prophetic  soul  warned  Rebecca  of 
her  approaching  doom. 

"Nodhead  apples?"  she  sparkled,  looking  as 
bright  and  rosy  and  satin-skinned  as  an  apple  her- 
self. 

"No;  guess  again." 

"  A  flowering  geranium  ? " 

"  Guess  again  !  " 

"  Nuts  ?  Oh  !  I  can't,  'Bijah  ;  I  'm  just  going  to 
Milliken's  Mills  on  an  errand,  and  I  'm  afraid  of 
missing  Mrs.  Perkins.  Show  me  quick  !  Is  it  really 
for  me,  or  for  Aunt  Miranda  ?  " 

"  Reely  for  you,  I  guess ! "  and  he  opened  the 
large  brown  paper  bag  and  drew  from  it  the  remains 
of  a  water-soaked  hat ! 

They  were  remains,  but  there  was  no  doubt  of 
their  nature  and  substance.  They  had  clearly  been 
114 


A  TRAGEDY   IN   MILLINERY 

h  hat  in  the  past,  and  one  could  even  suppose  that, 
when  resuscitated,  they  might  again  assume  their 
original  form  in  some  near  and  happy  future. 

Miss  Miranda,  full  of  curiosity,  joined  the  group 
in  the  side  entry  at  this  dramatic  moment. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  exclaimed.  "Where,  and 
how  under  the  canopy,  did  you  ever  ? "  — 

"  I  was  working  on  the  dam  at  Union  Falls  yes- 
terday," chuckled  Abijah,  with  a  pleased  glance  at 
each  of  the  trio  in  turn,  "  an'  I  seen  this  little  bun- 
nit  skippin'  over  the  water  j  est  as  Becky  does  over 
the  road.  It 's  shaped  kind  o'  like  a  boat,  an'  gorry, 
ef  it  wa'n't  sailin'  jest  like  a  boat !  '  Where  hev  I 
seen  that  kind  of  a  bristlin'  plume  ? '  thinks  I." 

("  Where  indeed !  "  thought  Rebecca  stormily.) 

"  Then  it  come  to  me  that  I  'd  drove  that  plume 
to  school  and  drove  it  to  meetin'  an'  drove  it  to  the 
Fair  an'  drove  it  most  everywheres  on  Becky.  So 
I  reached  out  a  pole  an'  ketched  it  'fore  it  got  in 
amongst  the  logs  an'  come  to  any  damage,  an'  here 
it  is  !  The  hat 's  passed  in  its  checks,  I  guess ; 
looks  kind  as  if  a  wet  elephant  had  stepped  on  it ; 
but  the  plume's  'bout's  good  as  new!  I  reely 
fetched  the  hat  back  for  the  sake  o'  the  plume." 

"It  was  real  good  of  you,  'Bijah,  an'  we  're  all  of 
us  obliged  to  you,"  said  Miranda,  as  she  poised  the 
hat  on  one  hand  and  turned  it  slowly  with  the 
other. 

115 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"Well,  I  do  say,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  I  guess 
I  've  said  it  before,  that  of  all  the  wearin'  plumes 
that  ever  I  see,  that  one's  the  wearin'est!  Seems 
though  it  just  would  n't  give  up.  Look  at  the  way 
it 's  held  Mis'  Cobb's  dye ;  it 's  about  as  brown 's 
when  it  went  int'  the  water." 

"  Dyed,  but  not  a  mite  dead,"  grinned  Abijah, 
who  was  somewhat  celebrated  for  his  puns. 

"And  I  declare,"  Miranda  continued,  "when  you 
think  o'  the  fuss  they  make  about  ostriches,  killin' 
'em  off  by  hundreds  for  the  sake  o'  their  feathers 
that  '11  string  out  and  spoil  in  one  hard  rainstorm, 
—  an'  all  the  time  lettin'  useful  porcupines  run 
round  with  their  quills  on,  why  I  can't  hardly  un- 
derstand it,  without  milliners  have  found  out  jest 
how  good  they  do  last,  an'  so  they  won't  use  'em 
for  trimmin'.  'Bijah  's  right ;  the  hat  ain't  no  more 
use,  Rebecca,  but  you  can  buy  you  another  this 
mornin'  —  any  color  or  shape  you  fancy  —  an'  have 
Miss  Morton  sew  these  brown  quills  on  to  it  with 
some  kind  of  a  buckle  or  a  bow,  jest  to  hide  the 
roots.  Then  you  '11  be  fixed  for  another  season, 
thanks  to  'Bijah." 

Uncle  Jerry  and  Aunt  Sarah  Cobb  were  made 
acquainted  before  very  long  with  the  part  that  des- 
tiny, or  Abijah  Flagg,  had  played   in  Rebecca's 
affairs,  for,  accompanied  by  the  teacher,  she  walked 
116 


A   TRAGEDY   IN   MILLINERY 

to  the  old  stage-driver's  that  same  afternoon.  Tak- 
ing off  her  new  hat  with  the  venerable  trimming, 
she  laid  it  somewhat  ostentatiously  upside  down 
on  the  kitchen  table  and  left  the  room,  dimpling  a 
little  more  than  usual. 

Uncle  Jerry  rose  from  his  seat,  and,  crossing 
the  room,  looked  curiously  into  the  hat  and  found 
that  a  circular  paper  lining  was  neatly  pinned  in 
the  crown,  and  that  it  bore  these  lines,  which  were 
read  aloud  with  great  effect  by  Miss  Dearborn,  and 
with  her  approval  were  copied  in  the  Thought  Book 
for  the  benefit  of  posterity  :  — 

"  It  was  the  bristling  porcupine, 

As  he  stood  on  his  native  heath, 
He  said,  '  I  '11  pluck  me  some  immortelles 

And  make  me  up  a  wreath. 
For  tho'  I  may  not  live  myself 

To  more  than  a  hundred  and  ten, 
My  quills  will  last  till  crack  of  doom, 

And  maybe  after  then. 
They  can  be  colored  blue  or  green 

Or  orange,  brown,  or  red, 
But  often  as  they  may  be  dyed 

They  never  will  be  dead.' 
And  so  the  bristling  porcupine 

As  he  stood  on  his  native  heath, 
Said,  '  I  think  I  '11  pluck  me  some  immortelles 

And  make  me  up  a  wreath.' 

R.  R.  R." 


Fifth  Chronicle 
THE  SAVING  OF   THE  COLORS 


EVEN  when  Rebecca  had  left  school,  having 
attained  the  great  age  of  seventeen  and 
therefore  able  to  look  back  over  a  past  in- 
credibly long  and  full,  she  still  reckoned  time  not  by 
years,  but  by  certain  important  occurrences. 

There  was  the  year  her  father  died ;  the  year  she 
left  Sunnybrook  Farm  to  come  to  her  aunts  in 
Riverboro;  the  year  Sister  Hannah  became  en- 
gaged ;  the  year  little  Mira  died  ;  the  year  Abijah 
Flagg  ceased  to  be  Squire  Bean's  chore-boy,  and 
astounded  Riverboro  by  departing  for  Limerick 
Academy  in  search  of  an  education ;  and  finally 
the  year  of  her  graduation,  which,  to  the  mind  of 
seventeen,  seems  rather  the  culmination  than  the 
beginning  of  existence. 

Between  these  epoch-making  events  certain  other 
happenings  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  gray 
of  dull  daily  life. 

There  was  the  day  she  first  met  her  friend  of 
friends,  "  Mr.  Aladdin,"  and  the  later,  even  more 
118 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

radiant  one  when  he  gave  her  the  coral  necklace. 
There  was  the  day  the  Simpson  family  moved  away 
from  Riverboro  under  a  cloud,  and  she  kissed  Clara 
Belle  fervently  at  the  cross-roads,  telling  her  that 
she  would  always  be  faithful.  There  was  the  visit 
of  the  Syrian  missionaries  to  the  brick  house. 
That  was  a  bright,  romantic  memory,  as  strange 
and  brilliant  as  the  wonderful  little  birds'  wings 
and  breasts  that  the  strangers  brought  from  the 
Far  East.  She  remembered  the  moment  they 
asked  her  to  choose  some  for  herself,  and  the  rap- 
ture with  which  she  stroked  the  beautiful  things 
as  they  lay  on  the  black  haircloth  sofa.  Then  there 
was  the  coming  of  the  new  minister,  for  though 
many  were  tried  only  one  was  chosen  ;  and  finally 
there  was  the  flag-raising,  a  festivity  that  thrilled 
Riverboro  and  Edgewood  society  from  centre  to 
circumference,  a  festivity  that  took  place  just  be- 
fore she  entered  the  Female  Seminary  at  Wareham 
and  said  good-by  to  kind  Miss  Dearborn  and  the 
village  school. 

There  must  have  been  other  flag-raisings  in  his- 
tory,—  even  the  persons  most  interested  in  this 
particular  one  would  grudgingly  have  allowed  that 
much,  —  but  it  would  have  seemed  to  them  improb- 
able that  any  such  flag-raising  as  theirs,  either  in 
magnitude  of  conception  or  brilliancy  of  actual  per- 
formance, could  twice  glorify  the  same  century. 
119 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

Of  some  pageants  it  is  tacitly  admitted  that  there 
can  be  no  duplicates,  and  the  flag-raising  at  River- 
boro  Centre  was  one  of  these ;  so  that  it  is  small 
wonder  if  Rebecca  chose  it  as  one  of  the  important 
dates  in  her  personal  almanac. 

The  new  minister's  wife  was  the  being,  under 
Providence,  who  had  conceived  the  germinal  idea 
of  the  flag. 

At  this  time  the  parish  had  almost  settled  down 
to  the  trembling  belief  that  they  were  united  on  a 
pastor.  In  the  earlier  time  a  minister  was  chosen 
for  life,  and  if  he  had  faults,  which  was  a  probable 
enough  contingency,  and  if  his  congregation  had 
any,  which  is  within  the  bounds  of  possibility,  each 
bore  with  the  other  (not  quite  without  friction),  as 
old-fashioned  husbands  and  wives  once  did,  before 
the  easy  way  out  of  the  difficulty  was  discovered, 
or  at  least  before  it  was  popularized. 

The  faithful  old  parson  had  died  after  thirty 
years'  preaching,  and  perhaps  the  newer  methods 
had  begun  to  creep  in,  for  it  seemed  impossible  to 
suit  the  two  communities  most  interested  in  the 
choice. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Davis,  for  example,  was  a  spirited 
preacher,  but  persisted  in  keeping  two  horses  in 
the  parsonage  stable,  and  in  exchanging  them  when- 
ever he  could  get  faster  ones.  As  a  parochial  vis- 
itor he  was  incomparable,  dashing  from  house  to 
1 20 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

house  with  such  speed  that  he  could  cover  the  par- 
ish in  a  single  afternoon.  This  sporting  tendency, 
which  would  never  have  been  remarked  in  a  British 
parson,  was  frowned  upon  in  a  New  England  vil- 
lage, and  Deacon  Milliken  told  Mr.  Davis,  when 
giving  him  what  he  alluded  to  as  his  "walking 
papers,"  that  they  didn't  want  the  Edgewood 
church  run  by  hoss  power ! 

The  next  candidate  pleased  Edgewood,  where 
morning  preaching  was  held,  but  the  other  parish, 
which  had  afternoon  service,  declined  to  accept 
him  because  he  wore  a  wig  —  an  ill-matched,  crook- 
edly applied  wig. 

Number  three  was  eloquent  but  given  to  gesticu- 
lation, and  Mrs.  Jere  Burbank,  the  president  of  the 
Dorcas  Society,  who  sat  in  a  front  pew,  said  she 
could  n't  bear  to  see  a  preacher  scramble  round  the 
pulpit  hot  Sundays. 

Number  four,  a  genial,  handsome  man,  gifted  in 
prayer,  was  found  to  be  a  Democrat.  The  congrega- 
tion was  overwhelmingly  Republican  in  its  politics, 
and  perceived  something  ludicrous,  if  not  positively 
blasphemous,  in  a  Democrat  preaching  the  gospel. 
("  Ananias  and  Beelzebub  '11  be  candidatin'  here, 
first  thing  we  know !  "  exclaimed  the  outraged  Re- 
publican nominee  for  district  attorney.) 

Number  five  had  a  feeble-minded  child,  which 
the  hiring  committee  prophesied  would  always  be 
121 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

standing  in  the  parsonage  front  yard,  making  talk 
for  the  other  denominations. 

Number  six  was  the  Rev.  Judson  Baxter,  the 
present  incumbent ;  and  he  was  voted  to  be  as  near 
perfection  as  a  minister  can  be  in  this  finite  world. 
His  young  wife  had  a  small  income  of  her  own,  a 
distinct  and  unusual  advantage,  and  the  subscrip- 
tion committee  hoped  that  they  might  not  be  eter- 
nally driving  over  the  country  to  get  somebody's 
fifty  cents  that  had  been  over-due  for  eight  months, 
but  might  take  their  onerous  duties  a  little  more 
easily. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  our  ministers  were  the  poor- 
est lot !  "  complained  Mrs.  Robinson.  "  If  their 
salary  is  two  months  behindhand  they  begin  to  be 
nervous !  Seems  as  though  they  might  lay  up  a 
little  before  they  come  here,  and  not  live  from  hand 
to  mouth  so !  The  Baxters  seem  quite  different, 
and  I  only  hope  they  won't  get  wasteful  and  run 
into  debt.  They  say  she  keeps  the  parlor  blinds 
open  'bout  half  the  time,  and  the  room  is  lit  up 
so  often  evenin's  that  the  neighbors  think  her  and 
Mr.  Baxter  must  set  in  there.  It  don't  seem  hardly 
as  if  it  could  be  so,  but  Mrs.  Buzzell  says  't  is,  and 
she  says  we  might  as  well  say  good-by  to  the  par- 
lor carpet,  which  is  church  property,  for  the  Bax- 
ters are  living  all  over  it !  " 

This  criticism  was  the  only  discordant  note  in 

122 


THE   SAVING  OF   THE   COLORS 

the  chorus  of  praise,  and  the  people  gradually 
grew  accustomed  to  the  open  blinds  and  the  over- 
used parlor  carpet,  which  was  just  completing  its 
twenty-fifth  year  of  honest  service. 

Mrs.  Baxter  communicated  her  patriotic  idea  of 
a  new  flag  to  the  Dorcas  Society,  proposing  that 
the  women  should  cut  and  make  it  themselves. 

"  It  may  not  be  quite  as  good  as  those  manufac- 
tured in  the  large  cities,"  she  said,  "  but  we  shall 
be  proud  to  see  our  home-made  flag  flying  in  the 
breeze,  and  it  will  mean  all  the  more  to  the  young 
voters  growing  up,  to  remember  that  their  mothers 
made  it  with  their  own  hands." 

"  How  would  it  do  to  let  some  of  the  girls  help? " 
modestly  asked  Miss  Dearborn,  the  Riverboro 
teacher.  "  We  might  choose  the  best  sewers  and 
let  them  put  in  at  least  a  few  stitches,  so  that  they 
can  feel  they  have  a  share  in  it." 

"  Just  the  thing ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baxter. 
"  We  can  cut  the  stripes  and  sew  them  together, 
and  after  we  have  basted  on  the  white  stars  the 
girls  can  apply  them  to  the  blue  ground.  We 
must  have  it  ready  for  the  campaign  rally,  and  we 
could  n't  christen  it  at  a  better  time  than  in  this 
presidential  year." 


123 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

ii 

In  this  way  the  great  enterprise  was  started,  and 
day  by  day  the  preparations  went  forward  in  the 
two  villages. 

The  boys,  as  future  voters  and  fighters,  de- 
manded an  active  share  in  the  proceedings,  and 
were  organized  by  Squire  Bean  into  a  fife  and 
drum  corps,  so  that  by  day  and  night  martial  but 
most  inharmonious  music  woke  the  echoes,  and 
deafened  mothers  felt  their  patriotism  oozing  out 
at  the  soles  of  their  shoes. 

Dick  Carter  was  made  captain,  for  his  grand- 
father had  a  gold  medal  given  him  by  Queen  Vic- 
toria for  rescuing  three  hundred  and  twenty-six 
passengers  from  a  sinking  British  vessel.  River- 
boro  thought  it  high  time  to  pay  some  graceful 
tribute  to  Great  Britain  in  return  for  her  handsome 
conduct  to  Captain  Nahum  Carter,  and  human  im- 
agination could  contrive  nothing  more  impressive 
than  a  vicarious  share  in  the  flag-raising. 

Living  Perkins  tried  to  be  happy  in  the  ranks, 
for  he  was  offered  no  official  position,  principally, 
Mrs.  Smellie  observed,  because  "  his  father's  war 
record  wa'n't  clean."  "  Oh,  yes  !  Jim  Perkins  went 
to  the  war,"  she  continued.  "  He  hid  out  behind 
the  hencoop  when  they  was  draftin',  but  they 
found  him  and  took  him  along.  He  got  into  one 
124 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

battle,  too,  somehow  or  'nother,  but  he  run  away 
from  it.  He  was  allers  cautious,  Jim  was ;  if  he 
ever  see  trouble  of  any  kind  comin'  towards  him, 
he  was  out  o'  sight  'fore  it  got  a  chance  to  light. 
He  said  eight  dollars  a  month,  without  bounty, 
would  n't  pay  him  to  stop  bullets  for.  He  would  n't 
fight  a  skeeter,  Jim  would  n't,  but  land !  we  ain't 
to  war  all  the  time,  and  he 's  a  good  neighbor  and 
a  good  blacksmith." 

Miss  Dearborn  was  to  be  Columbia  and  the  older 
girls  of  the  two  schools  were  to  be  the  States.  Such 
trade  in  muslins  and  red,  white,  and  blue  ribbons 
had  never  been  known  since  "  Watson  kep'  store," 
and  the  number  of  brief  white  petticoats  hanging 
out  to  bleach  would  have  caused  the  passing  stranger 
to  imagine  Riverboro  a  continual  dancing-school. 

Juvenile  virtue,  both  male  and  female,  reached 
an  almost  impossible  height,  for  parents  had  only 
to  lift  a  finger  and  say,  "You  shan't  go  to  the 
flag-raising ! "  and  the  refractory  spirit  at  once 
armed  itself  for  new  struggles  toward  the  perfect 
life. 

Mr.  Jeremiah  Cobb  had  consented  to  impersonate 
Uncle  Sam,  and  was  to  drive  Columbia  and  the 
States  to  the  "  raising  "  on  the  top  of  his  own  stage. 
Meantime  the  boys  were  drilling,  the  ladies  were 
cutting  and  basting  and  stitching,  and  the  girls  were 
sewing  on  stars  ;  for  the  starry  part  of  the  spangled 
125 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

banner  was  to  remain  with  each  of  them  in  turn 
until  she  had  performed  her  share  of  the  work. 

It  was  felt  by  one  and  all  a  fine  and  splendid  ser- 
vice indeed  to  help  in  the  making  of  the  flag,  and  if 
Rebecca  was  proud  to  be  of  the  chosen  ones,  so 
was  her  Aunt  Jane  Sawyer,  who  had  taught  her  all 
her  delicate  stitches. 

On  a  long-looked-for  afternoon  in  August  the 
minister's  wife  drove  up  to  the  brick-house  door, 
and  handed  out  the  great  piece  of  bunting  to 
Rebecca,  who  received  it  in  her  arms  with  as  much 
solemnity  as  if  it  had  been  a  child  awaiting  bap- 
tismal rites. 

"  I  'm  so  glad !  "  she  sighed  happily.  "  I  thought 
it  would  never  come  my  turn  !  " 

"You  should  have  had  it  a  week  ago,  but 
Huldah  Meserve  upset  the  ink  bottle  over  her  star, 
and  we  had  to  baste  on  another  one.  You  are  the 
last,  though,  and  then  we  shall  sew  the  stars  and 
stripes  together,  and  Seth  Strout  will  get  the  top 
ready  for  hanging.  Just  think,  it  won't  be  many 
days  before  you  children  will  be  pulling  the  rope 
with  all  your  strength,  the  band  will  be  playing, 
the  men  will  be  cheering,  and  the  new  flag  will  go 
higher  and  higher,  till  the  red,  white,  and  blue 
shows  against  the  sky ! " 

Rebecca's  eyes  fairly  blazed.    "  Shall  I  '  fell  on ' 
my  star,  or  buttonhole  it  ?  "  she  asked. 
126 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

"Look  at  all  the  others  and  make  the  most 
beautiful  stitches  you  can,  that 's  all.  It  is  your 
star,  you  know,  and  you  can  even  imagine  it  is 
your  state,  and  try  and  have  it  the  best  of  all.  If 
everybody  else  is  trying  to  do  the  same  thing  with 
her  state,  that  will  make  a  great  country,  won't 
it? " 

Rebecca's  eyes  spoke  glad  confirmation  of  the 
idea.  "  My  star,  my  state  !  "  she  repeated  joyously. 
"Oh,  Mrs.  Baxter,  I'll  make  such  fine  stitches  you'll 
think  the  white  grew  out  of  the  blue  ! " 

The  new  minister's  wife  looked  pleased  to  see 
her  spark  kindle  a  flame  in  the  young  heart.  "  You 
can  sew  so  much  of  yourself  into  your  star,"  she 
went  on  in  the  glad  voice  that  made  her  so  win- 
some, "  that  when  you  are  an  old  lady  you  can  put 
on  your  specs  and  find  it  among  all  the  others. 
Good-by !  Come  up  to  the  parsonage  Saturday 
afternoon  ;  Mr.  Baxter  wants  to  see  you." 

"Judson,  help  that  dear  little  genius  of  a  Re- 
becca all  you  can  !  "  she  said  that  night,  when  they 
were  cosily  talking  in  their  parlor  and  living  "  all 
over  "  the  parish  carpet.  "  I  don't  know  what  she 
may,  or  may  not,  come  to,  some  day ;  I  only  wish 
she  were  ours  !  If  you  could  have  seen  her  clasp 
the  flag  tight  in  her  arms  and  put  her  cheek  against 
it,  and  watched  the  tears  of  feeling  start  in  her 
eyes  when  I  told  her  that  her  star  was  her  state  ! 
127 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

I  kept  whispering  to  myself,  '  Covet  not  thy  neigh- 
bor's child ! "' 

Daily  at  four  o'clock  Rebecca  scrubbed  her  hands 
almost  to  the  bone,  brushed  her  hair,  and  otherwise 
prepared  herself  in  body,  mind,  and  spirit  for  the 
consecrated  labor  of  sewing  on  her  star.  All  the 
time  that  her  needle  cautiously,  conscientiously 
formed  the  tiny  stitches  she  was  making  rhymes 
"in  her  head,"  her  favorite  achievement  being 
this :  — 

"  Your  star,  my  star,  all  our  stars  together, 
They  make  the  dear  old  banner  proud 
To  float  in  the  bright  fall  weather." 

There  was  much  discussion  as  to  which  of  the 
girls  should  impersonate  the  State  of  Maine,  for 
that  was  felt  to  be  the  highest  honor  in  the  gift 
of  the  committee. 

Alice  Robinson  was  the  prettiest  child  in  the 
village,  but  she  was  very  shy  and  by  no  means  a 
general  favorite. 

Minnie  Smellie  possessed  the  handsomest  dress 
and  a  pair  of  white  slippers  and  open-work  stock- 
ings that  nearly  carried  the  day.  Still,  as  Miss 
Delia  Weeks  well  said,  she  was  so  stupid  that  if 
she  should  suck  her  thumb  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  exercises  nobody  'd  be  a  dite  surprised  ! 

Huldah  Meserve  was  next  voted  upon,  and  the 
fact  that  if  she  were  not  chosen  her  father  might 
128 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

withdraw  his  subscription  to  the  brass  band  fund 
was  a  matter  for  grave  consideration. 

"  I  kind  o'  hate  to  have  such  a  giggler  for  the 
State  of  Maine ;  let  her  be  the  Goddess  of  Liberty," 
proposed  Mrs.  Burbank,  whose  patriotism  was  more 
local  than  national. 

"  How  would  Rebecca  Randall  do  for  Maine,  and 
let  her  speak  some  of  her  verses  ?  "  suggested  the 
new  minister's  wife,  who,  could  she  have  had  her 
way,  would  have  given  all  the  prominent  parts  to 
Rebecca,  from  Uncle  Sam  down. 

So,  beauty,  fashion,  and  wealth  having  been  tried 
and  found  wanting,  the  committee  discussed  the 
claims  of  talent,  and  it  transpired  that  to  the  awe- 
stricken  Rebecca  fell  the  chief  plum  in  the  pud- 
ding. It  was  a  tribute  to  her  gifts  that  there  was 
no  jealousy  or  envy  among  the  other  girls;  they 
readily  conceded  her  special  fitness  for  the  r61e. 

Her  life  had  not  been  pressed  down  full  to  the 
brim  of  pleasures,  and  she  had  a  sort  of  distrust  of 
joy  in  the  bud.  Not  until  she  saw  it  in  full  radiance 
of  bloom  did  she  dare  embrace  it.  She  had  never 
read  any  verse  but  Byron,  Felicia  Hemans,  bits  of 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  and  the  selections  in  the  school 
readers,  but  she  would  have  agreed  heartily  with 
the  poet  who  said  :  — 

"  Not  by  appointment  do  we  meet  delight 
And  joy ;  they  heed  not  our  expectancy; 
129 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

But  round  some  corner  in  the  streets  of  life 
They  on  a  sudden  clasp  us  with  a  smile." 

For  many  nights  before  the  raising,  when  she 
went  to  her  bed  she  said  to  herself,  after  she  had 
finished  her  prayers  :  "  It  can't  be  true  that  I  'm 
chosen  for  the  State  of  Maine !  It  just  cant  be 
true  !  Nobody  could  be  good  enough,  but  oh,  I  '11 
try  to  be  as  good  as  I  can !  To  be  going  to  Ware- 
ham  Seminary  next  week  and  to  be  the  State  of 
Maine  too  !  Oh !  I  must  pray  hard  to  God  to  keep 
me  meek  and  humble  !  " 

III 

The  flag  was  to  be  raised  on  a  Tuesday,  and  on 
the  previous  Sunday  it  became  known  to  the  chil- 
dren that  Clara  Belle  Simpson  was  coming  back 
from  Acreville,  coming  to  live  with  Mrs.  Fogg  and 
take  care  of  the  baby,  called  by  the  neighborhood 
boys  "  the  Fogg  horn,"  on  account  of  his  excellent 
voice  production. 

Clara  Belle  was  one  of  Miss  Dearborn's  original 
flock,  and  if  she  were  left  wholly  out  of  the  festivi- 
ties she  would  be  the  only  girl  of  suitable  age  to  be 
thus  slighted  ;  it  seemed  clear  to  the  juvenile  mind, 
therefore,  that  neither  she  nor  her  descendants 
would  ever  recover  from  such  a  blow.  But,  under 
all  the  circumstances,  would  she  be  allowed  to  join 
in  the  procession  ?  Even  Rebecca,  the  optimistic, 
130 


'MV    STAR,    MY    STATE!"    SHE    REPEATED    JOYOUSLY 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE  COLORS 

feared  not,  and  the  committee  confirmed  her  fears 
by  saying  that  Abner  Simpson's  daughter  certainly 
could  not  take  any  prominent  part  in  the  ceremony, 
but  they  hoped  that  Mrs.  Fogg  would  allow  her  to 
witness  it. 

When  Abner  Simpson,  urged  by  the  town  author- 
ities, took  his  wife  and  seven  children  away  from 
Riverboro  to  Acreville,  just  over  the  border  in  the 
next  county,  Riverboro  went  to  bed  leaving  its  barn 
and  shed  doors  unfastened,  and  drew  long  breaths 
of  gratitude  to  Providence. 

Of  most  winning  disposition  and  genial  manners, 
Mr.  Simpson  had  not  that  instinctive  comprehen- 
sion of  property  rights  which  renders  a  man  a  valu- 
able citizen. 

Squire  Bean  was  his  nearest  neighbor,  and  he 
conceived  the  novel  idea  of  paying  Simpson  five 
dollars  a  year  not  to  steal  from  him,  a  method  oc- 
casionally used  in  the  Highlands  in  early  days. 

The  bargain  was  struck,  and  adhered  to  reli- 
giously for  a  twelve-month,  but  on  the  second  of 
January  Mr.  Simpson  announced  the  verbal  con- 
tract as  formally  broken. 

"  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was  doin'  when  I  made 
it,  Squire,"  he  urged.  "  In  the  first  place,  it's  a  slur 
on  my  reputation  and  an  injury  to  my  self-respect. 
Secondly,  it 's  a  nervous  strain  on  me  ;  and  thirdly, 
five  dollars  don't  pay  me!" 
I3i 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

Squire  Bean  was  so  struck  with  the  unique  and 
convincing  nature  of  these  arguments  that  he  could 
scarcely  restrain  his  admiration,  and  he  confessed 
to  himself  afterward,  that  unless  Simpson's  men- 
tal attitude  could  be  changed  he  was  perhaps  a 
fitter  subject  for  medical  science  than  the  state 
prison. 

Abner  was  a  most  unusual  thief,  and  conducted 
his  operations  with  a  tact  and  neighborly  considera- 
tion none  too  common  in  the  profession.  He  would 
never  steal  a  man's  scythe  in  haying-time,  nor  his 
fur  lap-robe  in  the  coldest  of  the  winter.  The 
picking  of  a  lock  offered  no  attractions  to  him; 
"hewa'n't  no  burglar,"  he  would  have  scornfully 
asserted.  A  strange  horse  and  wagon  hitched  by 
the  roadside  was  the  most  flagrant  of  his  thefts  ; 
but  it  was  the  small  things  —  the  hatchet  or  axe 
on  the  chopping-block,  the  tin  pans  sunning  at  the 
side  door,  a  stray  garment  bleaching  on  the  grass, 
a  hoe,  rake,  shovel,  or  a  bag  of  early  potatoes,  — 
that  tempted  him  most  sorely ;  and  these  appealed 
to  him  not  so  much  for  their  intrinsic  value  as  be- 
cause they  were  so  excellently  adapted  to  swapping. 
The  swapping  was  really  the  enjoyable  part  of  the 
procedure,  the  theft  was  only  a  sad  but  necessary 
preliminary  ;  for  if  Abner  himself  had  been  a  man 
of  sufficient  property  to  carry  on  his  business  oper- 
ations independently,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would 
132 


THE  SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

have  helped  himself  so  freely  to  his  neighbor's 
goods. 

Riverboro  regretted  the  loss  of  Mrs.  Simpson, 
who  was  useful  in  scrubbing,  cleaning,  and  wash- 
ing, and  was  thought  to  exercise  some  influence 
over  her  predatory  spouse.  There  was  a  story  of 
their  early  married  life,  when  they  had  a  farm  ;  a 
story  to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Simpson  always  rode 
on  every  load  of  hay  that  her  husband  took  to 
Milltown,  with  the  view  of  keeping  him  sober 
through  the  day.  After  he  turned  out  of  the  coun- 
try road  and  approached  the  metropolis,  it  was  said 
that  he  used  to  bury  the  docile  lady  in  the  load. 
He  would  then  drive  on  to  the  scales,  have  the 
weight  of  hay  entered  in  the  buyer's  book,  take 
his  horses  to  the  stable  for  feed  and  water,  and 
when  a  favorable  opportunity  offered  he  would 
assist  the  hot  and  panting  Mrs.  Simpson  out  of  the 
side  or  back  of  the  rack,  and  gallantly  brush  the 
straw  from  her  person.  For  this  reason  it  was 
always  asserted  that  Abner  Simpson  sold  his  wife 
every  time  he  went  to  Milltown,  but  the  story  was 
never  fully  substantiated,  and  at  all  events  it  was 
the  only  suspected  blot  on  meek  Mrs.  Simpson's 
personal  reputation. 

As  for  the  Simpson  children,  they  were  missed 
chiefly  as  familiar  figures  by  the  roadside ;  but  Re- 
becca honestly  loved  Clara  Belle,  notwithstanding 

133 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

her  Aunt  Miranda's  opposition  to  the  intimacy. 
Rebecca's  "taste  for  low  company"  was  a  source 
of  continual  anxiety  to  her  aunt. 

"Anything  that 's  human  flesh  is  good  enough 
for  her ! "  Miranda  groaned  to  Jane.  "  She  '11  ride 
with  the  rag-sack-and-bottle  peddler  just  as  quick 
as  she  would  with  the  minister;  she  always  sets 
beside  the  St.  Vitus'  dance  young  one  at  Sabbath 
school ;  and  she 's  forever  riggin'  and  onriggin'  that 
dirty  Simpson  baby !  She  reminds  me  of  a  puppy 
that  '11  always  go  to  everybody  that  '11  have  him ! " 

It  was  thought  very  creditable  to  Mrs.  Fogg  that 
she  sent  for  Clara  Belle  to  live  with  her  and  go  to 
school  part  of  the  year. 

"She'll  be  useful,"  said  Mrs.  Fogg,  "and  she'll 
be  out  of  her  father's  way,  and  so  keep  honest ; 
though  she  's  so  awful  hombly  I  've  no  fears  for 
her.  A  girl  with  her  red  hair,  freckles,  and  cross- 
eyes  can't  fall  into  no  kind  of  sin,  I  don't  be- 
lieve." 

Mrs.  Fogg  requested  that  Clara  Belle  should  be 
started  on  her  journey  from  Acreville  by  train  and 
come  the  rest  of  the  way  by  stage,  and  she  was 
disturbed  to  receive  word  on  Sunday  that  Mr. 
Simpson  had  borrowed  a  "good  roader"  from  a 
new  acquaintance,  and  would  himself  drive  the  girl 
from  Acreville  to  Riverboro,  a  distance  of  thirty 
134 


THE  SAVING  OF  THE  COLORS 

five  miles.  That  he  would  arrive  in  their  vicinity 
on  the  very  night  before  the  flag-raising  was  thought 
by  Riverboro  to  be  a  public  misfortune,  and  several 
residents  hastily  determined  to  deny  themselves  a 
sight  of  the  festivities  and  remain  watchfully  on 
their  own  premises. 

On  Monday  afternoon  the  children  were  rehears- 
ing their  songs  at  the  meeting-house.  As  Rebecca 
came  out  on  the  broad  wooden  steps  she  watched 
Mrs.  Peter  Meserve's  buggy  out  of  sight,  for  in 
front,  wrapped  in  a  cotton  sheet,  lay  the  precious 
flag.  After  a  few  chattering  good-bys  and  weather 
prophecies  with  the  other  girls,  she  started  on  her 
homeward  walk,  dropping  in  at  the  parsonage  to 
read  her  verses  to  the  minister. 

He  welcomed  her  gladly  as  she  removed  her 
white  cotton  gloves  (hastily  slipped  on  outside  the 
door,  for  ceremony)  and  pushed  back  the  funny  hat 
with  the  yellow  and  black  porcupine  quills  —  the 
hat  with  which  she  made  her  first  appearance  in 
Riverboro  society. 

"  You  've  heard  the  beginning,  Mr.  Baxter ;  now 
will  you  please  tell  me  if  you  like  the  last  verse  ? " 
she  asked,  taking  out  her  paper.  "  I  've  only  read 
it  to  Alice  Robinson,  and  I  think  perhaps  she  can 
never  be  a  poet,  though  she 's  a  splendid  writer. 
Last  year  when  she  was  twelve  she  wrote  a  birth- 
day poem  to  herself,  and  she  made  '  natal '  rhyme 
135 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

with  '  Milton,'  which,  of  course,  it  would  n't.    I  re- 
member every  verse  ended  :  — 

'  This  is  my  day  so  natal 
And  I  will  follow  Milton.' 

Another  one  of  hers  was  written  just  because  she 
could  n't  help  it,  she  said.   This  was  it :  — 

'  Let  me  to  the  hills  away, 
Give  me  pen  and  paper; 
I  '11  write  until  the  earth  will  sway 
The  story  of  my  Maker.'  " 

The  minister  could  scarcely  refrain  from  smiling, 
but  he  controlled  himself  that  he  might  lose  none 
of  Rebecca's  quaint  observations.  When  she  was 
perfectly  at  ease,  unwatched  and  uncriticised,  she 
was  a  marvelous  companion. 

"The  name  of  the  poem  is  going  to  be  'My 
Star,'  "  she  continued,  "and  Mrs.  Baxter  gave  me 
all  the  ideas,  but  somehow  there 's  a  kind  of  magic- 
ness  when  they  get  into  poetry,  don't  you  think 
so  ? "  (Rebecca  always  talked  to  grown  people  as 
if  she  were  their  age,  or,  a  more  subtle  and  truer 
distinction,  as  if  they  were  hers.) 

"It  has  often  been  so  remarked,  in  different 
words,"  agreed  the  minister. 

"  Mrs.  Baxter  said  that  each  star  was  a  state,  and 

if  each  state  did  its  best  we  should  have  a  splendid 

country.    Then  once  she  said  that  we  ought  to  be 

glad  the  war  is  over  and  the  States  are  all  at  peace 

136 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

together ;  and  I  thought  Columbia  must  be  glad, 
too,  for  Miss  Dearborn  says  she  's  the  mother  of  all 
the  States.  So  I  'm  going  to  have  it  end  like  this  : 
I  didn't  write  it,  I  just  sewed  it  while  I  was  work- 
ing on  my  star  :  — 

For  it 's  your  star,  my  star,  all  the  stars  together, 

That  make  our  country's  flag  so  proud 
To  float  in  the  bright  fall  weather. 
Northern  stars,  Southern  stars,  stars  of  the  East  and  West, 

Side  by  side  they  lie  at  peace 
On  the  dear  flag's  mother-breast." 

" '  Oh  !  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown  by 
Nature,' "  thought  the  minister,  quoting  Words- 
worth to  himself.  "  And  I  wonder  what  becomes 
of  them  !  That 's  a  pretty  idea,  little  Rebecca,  and 
I  don't  know  whether  you  or  my  wife  ought  to 
have  the  more  praise.  What  made  you  think  of  the 
stars  lying  on  the  flag's  '  mother-breast '  ?  Where 
did  you  get  that  word  ?  " 

"Why  "  (and  the  young  poet  looked  rather  puz- 
zled), "  that 's  the  way  it  is ;  the  flag  is  the  whole 
country — the  mother — and  the  stars  are  the  states. 
The  stars  had  to  lie  somewhere  :  '  lap '  nor  '  arms ' 
would  n't  sound  well  with  '  West,'  so,  of  course,  I 
said  '  breast,  "  Rebecca  answered,  with  some  sur- 
prise at  the  question ;  and  the  minister  put  his 
hand  under  her  chin  and  kissed  her  softly  on  the 
forehead  when  he  said  good-by  at  the  door. 
137 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

IV 

Rebecca  walked  rapidly  along  in  the  gathering 
twilight,  thinking  of  the  eventful  morrow. 

As  she  approached  the  turning  on  the  left  called 
the  old  Milltown  road,  she  saw  a  white  horse  and 
wagon,  driven  by  a  man  with  a  rakish,  flapping, 
Panama  hat,  come  rapidly  around  the  turn  and  dis- 
appear over  the  long  hills  leading  down  to  the 
falls.  There  was  no  mistaking  him ;  there  never 
was  another  Abner  Simpson,  with  his  lean  height, 
his  bushy  reddish  hair,  the  gay  cock  of  his  hat,  and 
the  long,  piratical,  upturned  mustaches,  which  the 
boys  used  to  say  were  used  as  hat-racks  by  the 
Simpson  children  at  night.  The  old  Milltown  road 
ran  past  Mrs.  Fogg's  house,  so  he  must  have  left 
Clara  Belle  there,  and  Rebecca's  heart  glowed  to 
think  that  her  poor  little  friend  need  not  miss  the 
raising. 

She  began  to  run  now,  fearful  of  being  late  for 
supper,  and  covered  the  ground  to  the  falls  in  a 
brief  time.  As  she  crossed  the  bridge  she  again 
saw  Abner  Simpson's  team,  drawn  up  at  the  water- 
ing trough. 

Coming  a  little  nearer,  with  the  view  of  inquiring 
for  the  family,  her  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  some- 
thing unexpected.  A  gust  of  wind  blew  up  a  corner 
of  a  linen  lap-robe  in  the  back  of  the  wagon,  and 
138 


THE   SAVING  OF  THE  COLORS 

underneath  it  she  distinctly  saw  the  white-sheeted 
bundle  that  held  the  flag ;  the  bundle  with  a  tiny, 
tiny  spot  of  red  bunting  peeping  out  at  one  corner. 
It  is  true  she  had  eaten,  slept,  dreamed  red,  white, 
and  blue  for  weeks,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  evidence  of  her  senses ;  the  idolized  flag,  longed 
for,  worked  for,  sewed  for,  that  flag  was  in  the  back 
of  Abner  Simpson's  wagon,  and  if  so,  what  would 
become  of  the  raising  ? 

Acting  on  blind  impulse,  she  ran  toward  the 
watering-trough,  calling  out  in  her  clear  treble : 
"  Mr.  Simpson !  Oh,  Mr.  Simpson,  will  you  let 
me  ride  a  piece  with  you  and  hear  all  about  Clara 
Belle?  I'm  going  part  way  over  to  the  Centre  on 
an  errand."  (So  she  was  ;  a  most  important  errand, 
—  to  recover  the  flag  of  her  country  at  present  in 
the  hands  of  the  foe !) 

Mr.  Simpson  turned  round  in  his  seat  and  cried 
heartily,  "Certain  sure  I  will!"  for  he  liked  the 
fair  sex,  young  and  old,  and  Rebecca  had  always 
been  a  prime  favorite  with  him.  "Climb  right  in ! 
How's  everybody?  Glad  to  see  ye  !  The  folks  talk 
'bout  ye  from  sun-up  to  sun-down,  and  Clara  Belle 
can't  hardly  wait  for  a  sight  of  ye !  " 

Rebecca  scrambled  up,  trembling  and  pale  with 

excitement.    She  did  not  in  the  least  know  what 

was  going  to  happen,  but  she  was  sure  that  the 

flag,  when  in  the  enemy's  country,  must  be  at  least 

139 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

a  little  safer  with  the  State  of  Maine  sitting  on  top 
of  it ! 

Mr.  Simpson  began  a  long  monologue  about 
Acreville,  the  house  he  lived  in,  the  pond  in  front 
of  it,  Mrs.  Simpson's  health,  and  various  items  of 
news  about  the  children,  varied  by  reports  of  his 
personal  misfortunes.  He  put  no  questions,  and 
asked  no  replies,  so  this  gave  the  inexperienced 
soldier  a  few  seconds  to  plan  a  campaign.  There 
were  three  houses  to  pass  ;  the  Browns'  at  the  cor- 
ner, the  Millikens',  and  the  Robinsons'  on  the  brow 
of  the  hill.  If  Mr.  Robinson  were  in  the  front  yard 
she  might  tell  Mr.  Simpson  she  wanted  to  call  there 
and  ask  Mr.  Robinson  to  hold  the  horse's  head 
while  she  got  out  of  the  wagon.  Then  she  might 
fly  to  the  back  before  Mr.  Simpson  could  realize 
the  situation,  and  dragging  out  the  precious  bundle, 
sit  on  it  hard,  while  Mr.  Robinson  settled  the  mat- 
ter of  ownership  with  Mr.  Simpson. 

This  was  feasible,  but  it  meant  a  quarrel  between 
the  two  men,  who  held  an  ancient  grudge  against 
each  other,  and  Mr.  Simpson  was  a  valiant  fighter, 
as  the  various  sheriffs  who  had  attempted  to  arrest 
him  could  cordially  testify.  It  also  meant  that 
everybody  in  the  village  would  hear  of  the  incident 
and  poor  Clara  Belle  be  branded  again  as  the  child 
of  a  thief. 

Another  idea  danced  into  her  excited  brain ; 
140 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

such  a  clever  one  she  could  hardly  believe  it  hers. 
She  might  call  Mr.  Robinson  to  the  wagon,  and 
when  he  came  close  to  the  wheels  she  might  say, 
"  all  of  a  sudden  " :  "  Please  take  the  flag  out  of 
the  back  of  the  wagon,  Mr.  Robinson.  We  have 
brought  it  here  for  you  to  keep  overnight."  Mr. 
Simpson  might  be  so  surprised  that  he  would  give 
up  his  prize  rather  than  be  suspected  of  stealing. 

But  as  they  neared  the  Robinsons'  house  there 
was  not  a  sign  of  life  to  be  seen ;  so  the  last  plan, 
ingenious  though  it  was,  was  perforce  abandoned. 

The  road  now  lay  between  thick  pine  woods  with 
no  dwelling  in  sight.  It  was  growing  dusk  and  Re- 
becca was  driving  along  the  lonely  way  with  a  per- 
son who  was  generally  called  Slippery  Simpson. 

Not  a  thought  of  fear  crossed  her  mind,  save  the 
fear  of  bungling  in  her  diplomacy,  and  so  losing  the 
flag.  She  knew  Mr.  Simpson  well,  and  a  pleasanter 
man  was  seldom  to  be  met.  She  recalled  an  after- 
noon when  he  came  home  and  surprised  the  whole 
school  playing  the  Revolutionary  War  in  his  helter- 
skelter  dooryard,  and  the  way  in  which  he  had 
joined  the  British  forces  and  impersonated  General 
Burgoyne  had  greatly  endeared  him  to  her.  The 
only  difficulty  was  to  find  proper  words  for  her  del- 
icate mission,  for,  of  course,  if  Mr.  Simpson's  anger 
were  aroused,  he  would  politely  push  her  out  of  the 
wagon  and  drive  away  with  the  flag.  Perhaps  if 
141 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

she  led  the  conversation  in  the  right  direction  an 
opportunity  would  present  itself.  She  well  remem- 
bered how  Emma  Jane  Perkins  had  failed  to  con- 
vert Jacob  Moody,  simply  because  she  failed  to 
"  lead  up  "  to  the  delicate  question  of  his  manner 
of  life.  Clearing  her  throat  nervously,  she  began  : 
"  Is  it  likely  to  be  fair  to-morrow  ?  " 
"  Guess  so  ;  clear  as  a  bell.    What 's  on  foot ;  a 


picnic 


"  No  ;  we  're  to  have  a  grand  flag-raising !  " 
("  That  is,"  she  thought,  "  if  we  have  any  flag  to 
raise ! ") 

"That  so?   Where?" 

"  The  three  villages  are  to  club  together  and 
have  a  rally,  and  raise  the  flag  at  the  Centre. 
There  '11  be  a  brass  band,  and  speakers,  and  the 
Mayor  of  Portland,  and  the  man  that  will  be  gov- 
ernor if  he  's  elected,  and  a  dinner  in  the  Grange 
Hall,  and  we  girls  are  chosen  to  raise  the  flag." 

"  I  want  to  know !  That  '11  be  grand,  won't 
it  ?  "  (Still  not  a  sign  of  consciousness  on  the  part 
of  Abner.) 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Fogg  will  take  Clara  Belle,  for  it 
will  be  splendid  to  look  at !  Mr.  Cobb  is  going  to 
be  Uncle  Sam  and  drive  us  on  the  stage.  Miss 
Dearborn  —  Clara  Belle's  old  teacher,  you  know  — 
is  going  to  be  Columbia ;  the  girls  will  be  the 
States  of  the  Union,  and  oh,  Mr.  Simpson,  I  am 
142 


THE  SAVING  OF  THE  COLORS 

the  one  to  be  the  State  of  Maine !  "  (This  was  not 
altogether  to  the  point,  but  a  piece  of  information 
impossible  to  conceal.) 

Mr.  Simpson  flourished  the  whipstock  and  gave 
a  loud,  hearty  laugh.  Then  he  turned  in  his  seat 
and  regarded  Rebecca  curiously.  "  You  're  kind  o' 
small,  hain't  ye,  for  so  big  a  state  as  this  one  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Any  of  us  would  be  too  small,"  replied  Re- 
becca with  dignity,  "but  the  committee  asked  me, 
and  I  am  going  to  try  hard  to  do  well." 

The  tragic  thought  that  there  might  be  no  oc- 
casion for  anybody  to  do  anything,  well  or  ill,  sud- 
denly overcame  her  here,  and  putting  her  hand  on 
Mr.  Simpson's  sleeve,  she  attacked  the  subject 
practically  and  courageously. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Simpson,  dear  Mr.  Simpson,  it 's  such 
a  mortifying  subject  I  can't  bear  to  say  anything 
about  it,  but  please  give  us  back  our  flag !  Don't, 
don't  take  it  over  to  Acreville,  Mr.  Simpson ! 
We  've  worked  so  long  to  make  it,  and  it  was  so 
hard  getting  the  money  for  the  bunting !  Wait  a 
minute,  please;  don't  be  angry,  and  don't  say  no 
just  yet,  till  I  explain  more.  It  '11  be  so  dreadful 
for  everybody  to  get  there  to-morrow  morning  and 
find  no  flag  to  raise,  and  the  band  and  the  mayor 
all  disappointed,  and  the  children  crying,  with  their 
muslin  dresses  all  bought  for  nothing !  O  dear 
143 


NEW   CHRONICLES  OF   REBECCA 

Mr.  Simpson,  please  don't  take  our  flag  away  from 
us!" 

The  apparently  astonished  Abner  pulled  his  mus- 
taches and  exclaimed :  "  But  I  don't  know  what 
you  're  drivin'  at !  Who 's  got  yer  flag  ?  /  hain't ! " 

Could  duplicity,  deceit,  and  infamy  go  any  fur- 
ther, Rebecca  wondered,  and  her  soul  filling  with 
righteous  wrath,  she  cast  discretion  to  the  winds 
and  spoke  a  little  more  plainly,  bending  her  great 
swimming  eyes  on  the  now  embarrassed  Abner, 
who  looked  like  an  angle-worm  wriggling  on  a 
pin. 

"  Mr.  Simpson,  how  can  you  say  that,  when  I  saw 
the  flag  in  the  back  of  your  wagon  myself,  when 
you  stopped  to  water  the  horse  ?  It 's  wicked  of 
you  to  take  it,  and  I  cannot  bear  it !  "  (Her  voice 
broke  now,  for  a  doubt  of  Mr.  Simpson's  yielding 
suddenly  darkened  her  mind.)  "If  you  keep  it, 
you  '11  have  to  keep  me,  for  I  won't  be'parted  from 
it !  I  can't  fight  like  the  boys,  but  I  can  pinch  and 
scratch,  and  I  will  scratch,  just  like  a  panther  — 
I  '11  lie  right  down  on  my  star  and  not  move,  if  I 
starve  to  death  ! "  s 

"  Look  here,  hold  your  hosses  'n'  don't  cry  till 
you  git  something  to  cry  for  !  "  grumbled  the  out- 
raged Abner,  to  whom  a  clue  had  just  come;  and 
leaning  over  the  wagon-back  he  caught  hold  of  a 
corner  of  white  sheet  and  dragged  up  the  bundle, 
144 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

scooping  off  Rebecca's  hat  in  the  process,  and 
almost  burying  her  in  bunting. 

She  caught  the  treasure  passionately  to  her  heart 
and  stifled  her  sobs  in  it,  while  Abner  exclaimed : 
"  I  swan  to  man,  if  that  hain't  a  flag !  Well,  in  that 
case  you  're  good  'n'  welcome  to  it !  Land  !  I  seen 
that  bundle  lyin'  in  the  middle  o'  the  road  and  I 
says  to  myself,  that 's  somebody's  washin'  and  I  'd  , 
better  pick  it  up  and  leave  it  at  the  post-office  to 
be  claimed ;  'n'  all  the  time  it  was  a  flag ! " 

This  was  a  Simpsonian  version  of  the  matter, 
the  fact  being  that  a  white-covered  bundle  lying 
on  the  Meserves'  front  steps  had  attracted  his  prac- 
ticed eye,  and  slipping  in  at  the  open  gate  he  had 
swiftly  and  deftly  removed  it  to  his  wagon  on  gen- 
eral principles ;  thinking  if  it  were  clean  clothes  it 
would  be  extremely  useful,  and  in  any  event  there 
was  no  good  in  passing  by  something  flung  into 
your  very  arms,  so  to  speak.  He  had  had  no  lei- 
sure to  examine  the  bundle,  and  indeed  took  little 
interest  in  it.  Probably  he  stole  it  simply  from 
force  of  habit,  and  because  there  was  nothing  else 
in  sight  to  steal,  everybody's  premises  being  pre- 
ternaturally  tidy  and  empty,  almost  as  if  his  visit 
had  been  expected ! 

Rebecca  was  a  practical  child,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  almost  impossible  that  so  heavy  a  bundle  should 
fall  out  of  Mrs.  Meserve's  buggy  and  not  be  no- 
145 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

ticed ;  but  she  hoped  that  Mr.  Simpson  was  telling 
the  truth,  and  she  was  too  glad  and  grateful  to 
doubt  any  one  at  the  moment. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you  ever  so  much,  Mr.  Simp- 
son. You're  the  nicest,  kindest,  politest  man  I 
ever  knew,  and  the  girls  will  be  so  pleased  you  gave 
us  back  the  flag,  and  so  will  the  Dorcas  Society ; 
they'll  be  sure  to  write  you  a  letter  of  thanks; 
they  always  do." 

"Tell  'em  not  to  bother  'bout  any  thanks,"  said 
Simpson,  beaming  virtuously.  "  But  land !  I  'm 
glad  'twas  me  that  happened  to  see  that  bundle 
in  the  road  and  take  the  trouble  to  pick  it  up." 
("Jest  to  think  of  it's  bein'  a  flag!"  he  thought; 
"  if  ever  there  was  a  pesky,  wuthless  thing  to  trade 
off,  't  would  be  a  great,  gormin'  flag  like  that !  ") 

"  Can  I  get  out  now,  please  ? "  asked  Rebecca. 
"I  want  to  go  back,  for  Mrs.  Meserve  will  be 
dreadfully  nervous  when  she  finds  out  she  dropped 
the  flag,  and  she  has  heart  trouble." 

"No,  you  don't,"  objected  Mr.  Simpson  gallantly, 
turning  the  horse.  "  Do  you  think  I  'd  let  a  little 
creeter  like  you  lug  that  great  heavy  bundle?  I 
hain't  got  time  to  go  back  to  Meserve's,  but  I  '11 
take  you  to  the  corner  and  dump  you  there,  flag  'n' 
all,  and  you  can  get  some  o'  the  men-folks  to  carry 
it  the  rest  o'  the  way.  You  '11  wear  it  out,  huggin' 
it  so ! " 

146 


THE  SAVING  OF   THE  COLORS 

"  I  helped  make  it  and  I  adore  it ! "  said  Rebecca, 
who  was  in  a  high-pitched  and  grandiloquent  mood. 
"  Why  don't  you  like  it  ?    It 's  your  country's  flag." 

Simpson  smiled  an  indulgent  smile  and  looked  a 
trifle  bored  at  these  frequent  appeals  to  his  ex- 
tremely rusty  higher  feelings. 

"  I  don'  know 's  I  've  got  any  partic'lar  int'rest 
in  the  country,"  he  remarked  languidly.  "  I  know 
I  don't  owe  nothin'  to  it,  nor  own  nothin'  in 
it!" 

"  You  own  a  star  on  the  flag,  same  as  everybody," 
argued  Rebecca,  who  had  been  feeding  on  patriot- 
ism for  a  month ;  "  and  you  own  a  state,  too,  like 
all  of  us  ! " 

"  Land  !  I  wish 't  I  did !  or  even  a  quarter  sec- 
tion ! "  sighed  Mr.  Simpson,  feeling  somehow  a 
little  more  poverty-stricken  and  discouraged  than 
usual. 

As  they  approached  the  corner  and  the  water- 
ing-trough where  four  cross-roads  met,  the  whole 
neighborhood  seemed  to  be  in  evidence,  and  Mr. 
Simpson  suddenly  regretted  his  chivalrous  escort 
of  Rebecca;  especially  when,  as  he  neared  the 
group,  an  excited  lady,  wringing  her  hands,  turned 
out  to  be  Mrs.  Peter  Meserve,  accompanied  by 
Huldah,  the  Browns,  Mrs.  Milliken,  Abijah  Flagg, 
and  Miss  Dearborn. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  the  new  flag, 
147 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Rebecca?"  shrieked  Mrs.  Meserve,  too  agitated, 
at  the  moment,  to  notice  the  child's  companion. 

"  It 's  right  here  in  my  lap,  all  safe,"  responded 
Rebecca  joyously. 

"You  careless,  meddlesome  young  one,  to  take 
it  off  my  steps  where  I  left  it  just  long  enough  to 
go  round  to  the  back  and  hunt  up  my  door-key ! 
You  've  given  me  a  fit  of  sickness  with  my  weak 
heart,  and  what  business  was  it  of  yours  ?  I  believe 
you  think  you  own  the  flag  !  Hand  it  over  to  me 
this  minute  ! " 

Rebecca  was  climbing  down  during  this  torrent 
of  language,  but  as  she  turned  she  flashed  one  look 
of  knowledge  at  the  false  Simpson,  a  look  that 
went  through  him  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  it  were 
carried  by  electricity. 

He  had  not  deceived  her  after  all,  owing  to  the 
angry  chatter  of  Mrs.  Meserve.  He  had  been  hand- 
cuffed twice  in  his  life,  but  no  sheriff  had  ever  dis- 
comfited him  so  thoroughly  as  this  child.  Fury 
mounted  to  his  brain,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  safely 
out  from  between  the  wheels  he  stood  up  in  the 
wagon  and  flung  the  flag  out  in  the  road  in  the 
midst  of  the  excited  group. 

"Take  it,  you  pious,  passimonious,  cheese-parin', 
hair-splittin',  back-bitin',  flag-raisin'  crew ! "  he 
roared.  "  Rebecca  never  took  the  flag ;  I  found  it 
in  the  road,  I  say  ! " 

148 


THE   SAVING   OF   THE   COLORS 

"  You  never,  no  such  a  thing  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Meserve.  "  You  found  it  on  the  doorsteps  in  my 
garden ! " 

"  Mebbe  't  was  your  garden,  but  it  was  so  chock 
full  o'  weeds  I  thought  't  was  the  road,"  retorted 
Abner.  "  I  vow  I  would  n't  'a'  given  the  old  rag 
back  to  one  o'  you,  not  if  you  begged  me  on  your 
bended  knees  !  But  Rebecca  's  a  friend  o'  my  folks 
and  can  do  with  her  flag 's  she 's  a  mind  to,  and  the 
rest  o'  ye  can  go  to  thunder  —  'n'  stay  there,  for 
all  I  care !  " 

So  saying,  he  made  a  sharp  turn,  gave  the  gaunt 
white  horse  a  lash  and  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of 
dust,  before  the  astonished  Mr.  Brown,  the  only 
man  in  the  party,  had  a  thought  of  detaining  him. 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  spoke  so  quick,  Rebecca,"  said 
Mrs.  Meserve,  greatly  mortified  at  the  situation. 
"  But  don't  you  believe  a  word  that  lyin'  critter 
said  !  He  did  steal  it  off  my  doorstep,  and  how  did 
you  come  to  be  ridin'  and  consortin'  with  him  ?  I 
believe  it  would  kill  your  Aunt  Miranda  if  she 
should  hear  about  it! " 

The  little  school-teacher  put  a  sheltering  arm 
round  Rebecca  as  Mr.  Brown  picked  up  the  flag 
and  dusted  and  folded  it. 

"I  'm  willing  she  should  hear  about  it,"  Rebecca 
answered.  "  I  did  n't  do  anything  to  be  ashamed 
of !  I  saw  the  flag  in  the  back  of  Mr.  Simpson's 
149 


NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

wagon  and  I  just  followed  it.  There  weren't  any 
men  or  any  Dorcases  to  take  care  of  it  and  so  it 
fell  to  me !  You  would  n't  have  had  me  let  it  out 
of  my  sight,  would  you,  and  we  going  to  raise  it 
to-morrow  morning  ? " 

"  Rebecca  's  perfectly  right,  Mrs.  Meserve !  " 
said  Miss  Dearborn  proudly.  "  And  it 's  lucky 
there  was  somebody  quick-witted  enough  to  '  ride 
and  consort '  with  Mr.  Simpson  !  I  don't  know  what 
the  village  will  think,  but  seems  to  me  the  town 
clerk  might  write  down  in  his  book,  '  This  day  the 
State  of  Maine  saved  the  flag  /'" 


Sixth  Chronicle 
THE  STATE  O'  MAINE  GIRL 


THE  foregoing  episode,  if  narrated  in  a 
romance,  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
called  *'The  Saving  of  the  Colors,"  but 
at  the  nightly  conversazione  in  Watson's  store  it 
was  alluded  to  as  the  way  little  Becky  Randall  got 
the  flag  away  from  Slippery  Simpson. 

Dramatic  as  it  was,  it  passed  into  the  limbo 
of  half-forgotten  things  in  Rebecca's  mind,  its 
brief  importance  submerged  in  the  glories  of  the 
next  day. 

There  was  a  painful  prelude  to  these  glories. 
Alice  Robinson  came  to  spend  the  night  with 
Rebecca,  and  when  the  bedroom  door  closed  upon 
the  two  girls,  Alice  announced  her  intention  of 
"doing  up"  Rebecca's  front  hair  in  leads  and 
rags,  and  braiding  the  back  in  six  tight,  wetted 
braids. 

Rebecca  demurred.   Alice  persisted. 

"Your  hair  is  so  long  and  thick  and  dark  and 
straight,"  she  said,  "  that  you  '11  look  like  an  In- 
jun!" 

I5i 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"I  am  the  State  of  Maine;  it  all  belonged  to 
the  Indians  once,"  Rebecca  remarked  gloomily, 
for  she  was  curiously  shy  about  discussing  her  per- 
sonal appearance. 

"And  your  wreath  of  little  pine-cones  won't  set 
decent  without  crimps,"  continued  Alice. 

Rebecca  glanced  in  the  cracked  looking-glass 
and  met  what  she  considered  an  accusing  lack  of 
beauty,  a  sight  that  always  either  saddened  or  en- 
raged her  according  to  circumstances  ;  then  she 
sat  down  resignedly  and  began  to  help  Alice  in 
the  philanthropic  work  of  making  the  State  of 
Maine  fit  to  be  seen  at  the  raising. 

Neither  of  the  girls  was  an  expert  hairdresser, 
and  at  the  end  of  an  hour,  when  the  sixth  braid 
was  tied,  and  Rebecca  had  given  one  last  shudder- 
ing look  in  the  mirror,  both  were  ready  to  weep 
with  fatigue. 

The  candle  was  blown  out  and  Alice  soon  went 
to  sleep,  but  Rebecca  tossed  on  her  pillow,  its 
goose-feathered  softness  all  dented  by  the  cruel 
lead  knobs  and  the  knots  of  twisted  rags.  She 
slipped  out  of  bed  and  walked  to  and  fro,  holding 
her  aching  head  with  both  hands.  Finally  she  leaned 
on  the  window-sill,  watching  the  still  weather-vane 
on  Alice's  barn  and  breathing  in  the  fragrance  of 
the  ripening  apples,  until  her  restlessness  subsided 
under  the  clear  starry  beauty  of  the  night. 
152 


THE  STATE   O'  MAINE   GIRL 

At  six  in  the  morning  the  girls  were  out  of  bed, 
for  Alice  could  hardly  wait  until  Rebecca's  hair 
was  taken  down,  she  was  so  eager  to  see  the  result 
of  her  labors. 

The  leads  and  rags  were  painfully  removed,  to- 
gether with  much  hair,  the  operation  being  punctu- 
ated by  a  series  of  squeaks,  squeals,  and  shrieks  on 
the  part  of  Rebecca  and  a  series  of  warnings  from 
Alice,  who  wished  the  preliminaries  to  be  kept 
secret  from  the  aunts,  that  they  might  the  more 
fully  appreciate  the  radiant  result. 

Then  came  the  unbraiding,  and  then  —  dramatic 
moment — the  "combing  out ;"  a  difficult,  not  to 
say  impossible  process,  in  which  the  hairs  that  had 
resisted  the  earlier  stages  almost  gave  up  the 
ghost. 

The  long  front  strands  had  been  wound  up  from 
various  angles  and  by  various  methods,  so  that,  when 
released,  they  assumed  the  strangest,  most  obsti- 
nate, most  unexpected  attitudes.  When  the  comb 
was  dragged  through  the  last  braid,  the  wild,  tor- 
tured, electric  hairs  following,  and  then  rebounding 
from  it  in  a  bristling,  snarling  tangle,  Massachu- 
setts gave  one  encompassing  glance  at  the  State 
o'  Maine's  head,  and  announced  her  intention  of 
going  home  to  breakfast !  She  was  deeply  grieved 
at  the  result  of  her  attempted  beautifying,  but  she 
felt  that  meeting  Miss  Miranda  Sawyer  at  the  morn- 
153 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

ing  meal  would  not  mend  matters  in  the  least,  so 
slipping  out  of  the  side  door,  she  ran  up  Guide- 
Board  hill  as  fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her. 

The  State  o'  Maine,  deserted  and  somewhat  un- 
nerved, sat  down  before  the  glass  and  attacked  her 
hair  doggedly  and  with  set  lips,  working  over  it 
until  Miss  Jane  called  her  to  breakfast ;  then,  with 
a  boldness  born  of  despair,  she  entered  the  dining- 
room,  where  her  aunts  were  already  seated  at  ta- 
ble. To  "  draw  fire  "  she  whistled,  a  forbidden  joy, 
which  only  attracted  more  attention,  instead  of  di- 
verting it.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence  after 
the  grotesque  figure  was  fully  taken  in  ;  then  came 
a  moan  from  Jane  and  a  groan  from  Miranda. 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself?"  asked  Mi- 
randa sternly. 

"  Made  an  effort  to  be  beautiful  and  failed !  " 
jauntily  replied  Rebecca,  but  she  was  too  miserable 
to  keep  up  the  fiction.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Miranda,  don't 
scold.  I  'm  so  unhappy !  Alice  and  I  rolled  up  my 
hair  to  curl  it  for  the  raising.  She  said  it  was  so 
straight  I  looked  like  an  Indian  !  " 

"Mebbe  you  did,"  vigorously  agreed  Miranda, 
"  but  't  any  rate  you  looked  like  a  Christian  Injun, 
'n'  now  you  look  like  a  heathen  Injun ;  that 's  all 
the  difference  I  can  see.  What  can  we  do  with  her, 
Jane,  between  this  and  nine  o'clock  ? " 

"We'll  all  go  out  to  the  pump  just  as  soon  as 
154 


THE   STATE  O'  MAINE   GIRL 

we  're  through  breakfast,"  answered  Jane  sooth- 
ingly. "  We  can  accomplish  consid'rable  with  wa- 
ter and  force." 

Rebecca  nibbled  her  corn-cake,  her  tearful  eyes 
cast  on  her  plate  and  her  chin  quivering. 

"  Don't  you  cry  and  red  your  eyes  up,"  chided 
Miranda  quite  kindly ;  "  the  minute  you  've  eat 
enough  run  up  and  get  your  brush  and  comb  and 
meet  us  at  the  back  door." 

"  I  would  n't  care  myself  how  bad  I  looked,"  said 
Rebecca,  "  but  I  can't  bear  to  be  so  homely  that  I 
shame  the  State  of  Maine  !  " 

Oh,  what  an  hour  followed  this  plaint !  Did  any 
aspirant  for  literary  or  dramatic  honors  ever  pass 
to  fame  through  such  an  antechamber  of  horrors  ? 
Did  poet  of  the  day  ever  have  his  head  so  mal- 
treated ?  To  be  dipped  in  the  rain-water  tub,  soused 
again  and  again ;  to  be  held  under  the  spout  and 
pumped  on ;  to  be  rubbed  furiously  with  rough 
roller  towels  ;  to  be  dried  with  hot  flannels !  And 
is  it  not  well-nigh  incredible  that  at  the  close  of 
such  an  hour  the  ends  of  the  long  hair  should  still 
stand  out  straight,  the  braids  having  been  turned 
up  two  inches  by  Alice,  and  tied  hard  in  that  posi- 
tion with  linen  thread  ? 

"  Get  out  the  skirt-board,  Jane,"  cried  Miranda,  to 
whom  opposition  served  as  a  tonic,  "  and  move  that 
flat-iron  on  to  the  front  o'  the  stove.  Rebecca,  set 
155 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

down  in  that  low  chair  beside  the  board,  and  Jane, 
you  spread  out  her  hair  on  it  and  cover  it  up  with 
brown  paper.  Don't  cringe,  Rebecca ;  the  worst 's 
over,  and  you  've  borne  up  real  good !  I  '11  be  care- 
ful not  to  pull  your  hair  nor  scorch  you,  and  oh,  how 
I  'd  like  to  have  Alice  Robinson  acrost  my  knee 
and  a  good  strip  o'  shingle  in  my  right  hand ! 
There,  you  're  all  ironed  out  and  your  Aunt  Jane 
can  put  on  your  white  dress  and  braid  your  hair  up 
again  good  and  tight.  Perhaps  you  won't  be  the 
hombliest  of  the  States,  after  all ;  but  when  I  see 
you  comin'  in  to  breakfast  I  said  to  myself :  '  I  guess 
if  Maine  looked  like  that,  it  would  n't  never  'a'  been 
admitted  into  the  Union ! ' " 

When  Uncle  Sam  and  the  stagecoach  drew  up 
to  the  brick  house  with  a  grand  swing  and  a  flourish, 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty  and  most  of  the  States  were 
already  in  their  places  on  the  "  harricane  deck." 

Words  fail  to  describe  the  gallant  bearing  of  the 
horses,  their  headstalls  gayly  trimmed  and  their 
harnesses  dotted  with  little  flags.  The  stage  win- 
dows were  hung  in  bunting,  and  from  within  beamed 
Columbia,  looking  out  from  the  bright  frame  as 
if  proud  of  her  freight  of  loyal  children.  Patriotic 
streamers  floated  from  whip,  from  dash-board  and 
from  rumble,  and  the  effect  of  the  whole  was  some- 
thing to  stimulate  the  most  phlegmatic  voter. 

Rebecca  came  out  on  the  steps  and  Aunt  Jane 
156 


THE  STATE  O'  MAINE  GIRL 

brought  a  chair  to  assist  in  the  ascent.  Miss  Dear- 
born peeped  from  the  window,  and  gave  a  despair- 
ing look  at  her  favorite. 

What  had  happened  to  her  ?  Who  had  dressed 
her  ?  Had  her  head  been  put  through  a  wringing- 
machine  ?  Why  were  her  eyes  red  and  swollen  ? 
Miss  Dearborn  determined  to  take  her  behind  the 
trees  in  the  pine  grove  and  give  her  some  finishing 
touches ;  touches  that  her  skillful  fingers  fairly 
itched  to  bestow. 

The  stage  started,  and  as  the  roadside  pageant 
grew  gayer  and  gayer,  Rebecca  began  to  brighten 
and  look  prettier,  for  most  of  her  beautifying  came 
from  within.  The  people,  walking,  driving,  or 
standing  on  their  doorsteps,  cheered  Uncle  Sam's 
coach  with  its  freight  of  gossamer-muslined,  flutter- 
ing-ribboned  girls,  and  just  behind,  the  gorgeously 
decorated  haycart,  driven  by  Abijah  Flagg,  bearing 
the  jolly  but  inharmonious  fife-and-drum  corps. 

Was  ever  such  a  golden  day !  Such  crystal  air ! 
Such  mellow  sunshine !   Such  a  merry  Uncle  Sam ! 

The  stage  drew  up  at  an  appointed  spot  near  a 
pine  grove,  and  while  the  crowd  was  gathering, 
the  children  waited  for  the  hour  to  arrive  when 
they  should  march  to  the  platform ;  the  hour 
toward  which  they  seemed  to  have  been  moving 
since  the  dawn  of  creation. 

As  soon  as  possible  Miss  Dearborn  whispered  to 
157 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Rebecca :    "  Come  behind  the  trees  with  me ;   I 
want  to  make  you  prettier !  " 

Rebecca  thought  she  had  suffered  enough  from 
that  process  already  during  the  last  twelve  hours, 
but  she  put  out  an  obedient  hand  and  the  two 
withdrew. 

Now  Miss  Dearborn  was,  I  fear,  a  very  indif- 
ferent teacher.  Dr.  Moses  always  said  so,  and 
Libbie  Moses,  who  wanted  her  school,  said  it  was 
a  pity  she  had  n't  enjoyed  more  social  advantages 
in  her  youth.  Libbie  herself  had  taken  music 
lessons  in  Portland  ;  had  spent  a  night  at  the 
Profile  House  in  the  White  Mountains,  and  had 
visited  her  sister  in  Lowell,  Massachusetts.  These 
experiences  gave  her,  in  her  own  mind,  and  in  the 
mind  of  her  intimate  friends,  a  horizon  so  bound- 
less that  her  view  of  smaller,  humbler  matters  was 
a  trifle  distorted. 

Miss  Dearborn's  stock  in  trade  was  small,  her 
principal  virtues  being  devotion  to  children  and 
ability  to  gain  their  love,  and  a  power  of  evolving 
a  schoolroom  order  so  natural,  cheery,  serene,  and 
peaceful  that  it  gave  the  beholder  a  certain  sense 
of  being  in  a  district  heaven.  She  was  poor  in  arith- 
metic and  weak  in  geometry,  but  if  you  gave  her  a 
rose,  a  bit  of  ribbon,  and  a  seven-by-nine  looking- 
glass  she  could  make  herself  as  pretty  as  a  pink  in 
two  minutes. 

158 


THE   STATE   O'  MAINE   GIRL 

Safely  sheltered  behind  the  pines,  Miss  Dear- 
born began  to  practice  mysterious  feminine  arts. 
She  flew  at  Rebecca's  tight  braids,  opened  the 
strands  and  rebraided  them  loosely ;  bit  and  tore 
the  red,  white,  and  blue  ribbon  in  two  and  tied 
the  braids  separately.  Then  with  nimble  fingers 
she  pulled  out  little  tendrils  of  hair  behind  the 
ears  and  around  the  nape  of  the  neck.  After  a 
glance  of  acute  disapproval  directed  at  the  stiff 
balloon  skirt  she  knelt  on  the  ground  and  gave  a 
strenuous  embrace  to  Rebecca's  knees,  murmur- 
ing, between  her  hugs,  "  Starch  must  be  cheap  at 
the  brick  house ! " 

This  particular  line  of  beauty  attained,  there  en- 
sued great  pinchings  of  ruffles  ;  her  fingers  that 
could  never  hold  a  ferrule  nor  snap  children's  ears 
being  incomparable  fluting-irons. 

Next  the  sash  was  scornfully  untied  and  tight- 
ened to  suggest  something  resembling  a  waist 
The  chastened  bows  that  had  been  squat,  dowdy, 
spiritless,  were  given  tweaks,  flirts,  bracing  little 
pokes  and  dabs,  till,  acknowledging  a  master  hand, 
they  stood  up,  piquant,  pert,  smart,  alert ! 

Pride  of  bearing  was  now  infused  into  the  flat- 
tened lace  at  the  neck,  and  a  pin  (removed  at  some 
sacrifice  from  her  own  toilette)  was  darned  in  at  the 
back  to  prevent  any  cowardly  lapsing.  The  short 
white  cotton  gloves  that  called  attention  to  the 
159 


NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

tanned  wrist  and  arms  were  stripped  off  and  put  in 
her  own  pocket.  Then  the  wreath  of  pine-cones  was 
adjusted  at  a  heretofore  unimagined  angle,  the  hair 
was  pulled  softly  into  a  fluffy  frame,  and  finally,  as 
she  met  Rebecca's  grateful  eyes  she  gave  her  two 
approving,  triumphant  kisses.  In  a  second  the 
sensitive  face  lighted  into  happiness  ;  pleased  dim- 
ples appeared  in  the  cheeks,  the  kissed  mouth  was 
as  red  as  a  rose,  and  the  little  fright  that  had  walked 
behind  the  pine-tree  stepped  out  on  the  other  side 
Rebecca  the  lovely. 

As  to  the  relative  value  of  Miss  Dearborn's  ac- 
complishments, the  decision  must  be  left  to  the 
gentle  reader;  but  though  it  is  certain  that  children 
should  be  properly  grounded  in  mathematics,  no 
heart  of  flesh  could  bear  to  hear  Miss  Dearborn's 
methods  vilified  who  had  seen  her  patting,  pulling, 
squeezing  Rebecca  from  ugliness  into  beauty. 

The  young  superintendent  of  district  schools  was 
a  witness  of  the  scene,  and  when  later  he  noted  the 
children  surrounding  Columbia  as  bees  a  honey- 
suckle, he  observed  to  Dr.  Moses :  "  She  may  not 
be  much  of  a  teacher,  but  I  think  she  'd  be  consid- 
erable of  a  wife ! "  and  subsequent  events  proved 
that  he  meant  what  he  said  ! 


160 


THE  STATE  O'  MAINE  GIRL 

ii 

Now  all  was  ready ;  the  moment  of  fate  was  ab- 
solutely at  hand ;  the  fife-and-drum  corps  led  the 
way  and  the  States  followed ;  but  what  actually 
happened  Rebecca  never  knew ;  she  lived  through 
the  hours  in  a  waking  dream.  Every  little  detail 
was  a  facet  of  light  that  reflected  sparkles,  and 
among  them  all  she  was  fairly  dazzled.  The  brass 
band  played  inspiring  strains;  the  mayor  spoke 
eloquently  on  great  themes ;  the  people  cheered ; 
then  the  rope  on  which  so  much  depended  was  put 
into  the  children's  hands,  they  applied  superhuman 
strength  to  their  task,  and  the  flag  mounted, 
mounted,  smoothly  and  slowly,  and  slowly  unwound 
and  stretched  itself  until  its  splendid  size  and 
beauty  were  revealed  against  the  maples  and  pines 
and  blue  New  England  sky. 

Then  after  cheers  upon  cheers  and  after  a  patri- 
otic chorus  by  the  church  choirs,  the  State  of  Maine 
mounted  the  platform,  vaguely  conscious  that  she 
was  to  recite  a  poem,  though  for  the  life  of  her  she 
could  not  remember  a  single  word. 

"  Speak  up  loud  and  clear,  Rebecky,"  whispered 
Uncle  Sam  in  the  front  row,  but  she  could  scarcely 
hear  her  own  voice  when,  tremblingly,  she  began 
her  first  line.  After  that  she  gathered  strength  and 
the  poem  "said  itself,"  while  the  dream  went  on. 
161 


NEW    CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

She  saw  Adam  Ladd  leaning  against  a  tree ;  Aunt 
Jane  and  Aunt  Miranda  palpitating  with  nervous- 
ness; Clara  Belle  Simpson  gazing  cross-eyed  but 
adoring  from  a  seat  on  the  side  ;  and  in  the  far,  far 
distance,  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  a  tall 
man  standing  in  a  wagon  —  a  tall,  loose-jointed 
man  with  red  upturned  mustaches,  and  a  gaunt 
white  horse  headed  toward  the  Acreville  road. 

Loud  applause  greeted  the  State  of  Maine,  the 
slender  little  white-clad  figure  standing  on  the  mossy 
boulder  that  had  been  used  as  the  centre  of  the 
platform.  The  sun  came  up  from  behind  a  great 
maple  and  shone  full  on  the  star-spangled  banner, 
making  it  more  dazzling  than  ever,  so  that  its 
beauty  drew  all  eyes  upward. 

Abner  Simpson  lifted  his  vagrant  shifting  gaze 
to  its  softly  fluttering  folds  and  its  splendid  mass- 
ing of  colors,  thinking  :  — 

"  I  don't  know 's  anybody  'd  ought  to  steal  a  flag 
—  the  thunderin'  idjuts  seem  to  set  such  store  by 
it,  and  What  is  it,  anyway?  Nothin'  but  a  sheet  o' 
buntin' !  " 

Nothing  but  a  sheet  of  bunting  ?  He  looked  cu- 
riously at  the  rapt  faces  of  the  mothers,  their  babies 
asleep  in  their  arms ;  the  parted  lips  and  shining 
eyes  of  the  white-clad  girls  ;  at  Cap'n  Lord,  who 
had  been  in  Libby  prison,  and  Nat  Strout,  who  had 
left  an  arm  at  Bull  Run  ;  at  the  friendly,  jostling 

162 


THE   STATE   O'  MAINE   GIRL 

crowd  of  farmers,  happy,  eager,  absorbed,  their 
throats  ready  to  burst  with  cheers.  Then  the 
breeze  served,  and  he  heard  Rebecca's  clear  voice 
saying :  — 

"  For  it 's  your  star,  my  star,  all  the  stars  together, 
That  make  our  country's  flag  so  proud 
To  float  in  the  bright  fall  weather !  " 

"  Talk  about  stars  !  She  's  got  a  couple  of  'em 
right  in  her  head,"  thought  Simpson.  ...  "If  I 
ever  seen  a  young  one  like  that  lyin'  on  anybody's 
doorstep  I  'd  hook  her  quicker  'n  a  wink,  though 
I  've  got  plenty  to  home,  the  Lord  knows !  And 
I  wouldn't  swap  her  off  neither.  .  .  .  Spunky  little 
creeter,  too  ;  settin'  up  in  the  wagon  lookin'  'bout 's 
big  as  a  pint  o'  cider,  but  keepin'  right  after  the 
goods !  .  .  .  I  vow  I  'm  'bout  sick  o'  my  job !  Never 
with  the  crowd,  allers  jest  on  the  outside,  's  if  I 
wa'n't  as  good  's  they  be !  If  it  paid  well,  mebbe  I 
would  n't  mind,  but  they  're  so  thunderin'  stingy 
round  here,  they  don't  leave  anything  decent  out 
for  you  to  take  from  'em,  yet  you're  reskin'  your 
liberty  'n'  reputation  jest  the  same!  .  .  .  Countin' 
the  poor  pickin's  'n'  the  time  I  lose  in  jail  I  might 
most 's  well  be  done  with  it  'n'  work  out  by  the  day, 
as  the  folks  want  me  to;  I  'd  make  'bout 's  much, 
'n'  I  don'  know's  it  would  be  any  harder!  " 

He  could  see  Rebecca  stepping  down  from  the 
platform,  while  his  own  red-headed  little  girl  stood 
163 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

up  on  her  bench,  waving  her  hat  with  one  hand,  her 
handkerchief  with  the  other,  and  stamping  with 
both  feet. 

Now  a  man  sitting  beside  the  mayor  rose  from 
his  chair  and  Abner  heard  him  call :  — 

"Three  cheers  for  the  women  who  made  the 
flag!" 

"  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  !  " 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  State  of  Maine  ! " 

"  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  !  " 

"Three  cheers  for  the  girl  that  saved  the  flag 
from  the  hands  of  the  enemy !  " 

"  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  !  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  !  " 

It  was  the  Edgewood  minister,  whose  full,  vibrant 
voice  was  of  the  sort  to  move  a  crowd.  His  words 
rang  out  into  the  clear  air  and  were  carried  from 
lip  to  lip.  Hands  clapped,  feet  stamped,  hats 
swung,  while  the  loud  huzzahs  might  almost  have 
wakened  the  echoes  on  old  Mount  Ossipee. 

The  tall,  loose-jointed  man  sat  down  in  the  wagon 
suddenly  and  took  up  the  reins. 

"They're  gettin'  a  little  mite  personal,  and  I  guess 
it 's  'bout  time  for  you  to  be  goin',  Simpson  !  " 

The  tone  was  jocular,  but  the  red  mustaches 
drooped,  and  the  half-hearted  cut  he  gave  to  start 
the  white  mare  on  her  homeward  journey  showed 
that  he  was  not  in  his  usual  devil-may-care  mood. 

"  Durn  his  skin ! "  he  burst  out  in  a  vindictive 
164 


THE   STATE   O'  MAINE  GIRL 

undertone,  as  the  mare  swung  into  her  long  gait. 
"  It 's  a  lie !  I  thought 't  was  somebody's  wash !  I 
hain't  an  enemy  !  " 

While  the  crowd  at  the  raising  dispersed  in  happy 
family  groups  to  their  picnics  in  the  woods ;  while 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  Uncle  Sam,  Columbia,  and 
the  proud  States  lunched  grandly  in  the  Grange 
hall  with  distinguished  guests  and  scarred  veterans 
of  two  wars,  the  lonely  man  drove,  and  drove,  and 
drove  through  silent  woods  and  dull,  sleepy  vil- 
lages, never  alighting  to  replenish  his  wardrobe 
or  his  stock  of  swapping  material. 

At  dusk  he  reached  a  miserable  tumble-down 
house  on  the  edge  of  a  pond. 

The  faithful  wife  with  the  sad  mouth  and  the 
habitual  look  of  anxiety  in  her  faded  eyes  came  to 
the  door  at  the  sound  of  wheels  and  went  doggedly 
to  the  horse-shed  to  help  him  unharness. 

"You  didn't  expect  to  see  me  back  to-night,  did 
ye  ? "  he  asked  satirically ;  "  leastwise  not  with  this 
same  horse  ?  Well,  I  'm  here  !  You  need  n't  be 
scairt  to  look  under  the  wagon-seat,  there  hain't 
nothin'  there,  not  even  my  supper,  so  I  hope  you  're 
suited  for  once !  No,  I  guess  I  hain't  goin'  to  be 
an  angel  right  away,  neither.  There  wa'n't  nothin' 
but  flags  layin'  roun*  loose  down  Riverboro  way,  'n' 
whatever  they  say,  I  hain't  sech  a  hound  as  to  steal 
a  flag ! " 

165 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

It  was  natural  that  young  Riverboro  should  have 
red,  white,  and  blue  dreams  on  the  night  after  the 
new  flag  was  raised.  A  stranger  thing,  perhaps,  is 
the  fact  that  Abner  Simpson  should  lie  down  on 
his  hard  bed  with  the  flutter  of  bunting  before  his 
eyes,  and  a  whirl  of  unaccustomed  words  in  his 
mind. 

"  For  it  's  your  star,  my  star,  all  our  stars  together." 

"  I  'm  sick  of  goin'  it  alone,"  he  thought ;  "  I 
guess  I  '11  try  the  other  road  for  a  spell;  "  and  with 
that  he  fell  asleep. 


Seventh  Chronicle 
THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 


I  GUESS  York  County  will  never  get  red  of 
that  Simpson  crew  !  "  exclaimed  Miranda  Saw- 
yer to  Jane.  "  I  thought  when  the  family 
moved  to  Acreville  we  'd  seen  the  last  of  'em,  but 
we  ain't !  The  big,  cross-eyed,  stutterin'  boy  has 
got  a  place  at  the  mills  in  Maplewood  ;  that 's  near 
enough  to  come  over  to  Riverboro  once  in  a  while 
of  a  Sunday  mornin'  and  set  in  the  meetin'  house 
starin'  at  Rebecca  same  as  he  used  to  do,  only  it 's 
reskier  now  both  of  'em  are  older.  Then  Mrs.  Fogg 
must  go  and  bring  back  the  biggest  girl  to  help  her 
take  care  of  her  baby,  —  as  if  there  wa'n't  plenty  of 
help  nearer  home !  Now  I  hear  say  that  the  young- 
est twin  has  come  to  stop  the  summer  with  the 
Cames  up  to  Edgewood  Lower  Corner." 

"  I  thought  two  twins  were  always  the  same 
age,"  said  Rebecca  reflectively,  as  she  came  into 
the  kitchen  with  the  milk  pail. 

"  So  they  be,"   snapped  Miranda,  flushing  and 
correcting  herself.    "  But  that  pasty-faced  Simpson 
twin  looks  younger  and  is  smaller  than  the  other 
167 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

one.  He 's  meek  as  Moses  and  the  other  one  is  as 
bold  as  a  brass  kettle  ;  I  don't  see  how  they  come 
to  be  twins  ;  they  ain't  a  mite  alike." 

"  Elijah  was  always  called  the  '  fighting  twin ' 
at  school,"  said  Rebecca,  "and  Elisha's  other  name 
was  Namby-Pamby  ;  but  I  think  he  's  a  nice  little 
boy,  and  I  'm  glad  he  has  come  back.  He  won't 
like  living  with  Mr.  Came,  but  he  '11  be  almost  next 
door  to  the  minister's,  and  Mrs.  Baxter  is  sure  to 
let  him  play  in  her  garden." 

"  I  wonder  why  the  boy  's  stayin*  with  Cassius 
Came,"  said  Jane.  "  To  be  sure  they  have  n't  got 
any  of  their  own,  but  the  child  's  too  young  to  be 
much  use." 

"I  know  why,"  remarked  Rebecca  promptly, 
"  for  I  heard  all  about  it  over  to  Watson's  when  I 
was  getting  the  milk.  Mr.  Came  traded  something 
with  Mr.  Simpson  two  years  ago  and  got  the  best 
of  the  bargain,  and  Uncle  Jerry  says  he  's  the 
only  man  that  ever  did,  and  he  ought  to  have  a 
monument  put  up  to  him.  So  Mr.  Came  owes 
Mr.  Simpson  money  and  won't  pay  it,  and  Mr. 
Simpson  said  he  'd  send  over  a  child  and  board 
part  of  it  out,  and  take  the  rest  in  stock  —  a  pig  or 
a  calf  or  something." 

"  That 's  all  stuff  and  nonsense,"  exclaimed  Mi- 
randa ;  "  nothin'  in  the  world  but  store-talk.  You 
git  a  clump  o'  men-folks  settin'  round  Watson's 
168 


THE  LITTLE  PROPHET 

stove,  or  out  on  the  bench  at  the  door,  an'  they  '11 
make  up  stories  as  fast  as  their  tongues  can  wag. 
The  man  don't  live  that 's  smart  enough  to  cheat 
Abner  Simpson  in  a  trade,  and  who  ever  heard  of 
anybody's  owin'  him  money  ?  'T  ain't  supposable 
that  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Came  would  allow  her  hus- 
band to  be  in  debt  to  a  man  like  Abner  Simpson. 
It 's  a  sight  likelier  that  she  heard  that  Mrs.  Simp- 
son was  ailin'  and  sent  for  the  boy  so  as  to  help 
the  family  along.  She  always  had  Mrs.  Simpson  to 
wash  for  her  once  a  month,  if  you  remember,  Jane  ?" 

There  are  some  facts  so  shrouded  in  obscurity 
that  the  most  skillful  and  patient  investigator  can- 
not drag  them  into  the  light  of  day.  There  are 
also  (but  only  occasionally)  certain  motives,  acts, 
speeches,  lines  of  conduct,  that  can  never  be  wholly 
and  satisfactorily  explained,  even  in  a  village  post- 
office  or  on  the  loafers'  bench  outside  the  tavern 
door. 

Cassius  Came  was  a  close  man,  close  of  mouth 
and  close  of  purse;  and  all  that  Riverboro  ever 
knew  as  to  the  three  months'  visit  of  the  Simpson 
twin  was  that  it  actually  occurred.  Elisha,  other- 
wise Namby-Pamby,  came  ;  Namby-Pamby  stayed ; 
and  Namby-Pamby,  when  he  finally  rejoined  his 
own  domestic  circle,  did  not  go  empty-handed  (so 
to  speak),  for  he  was  accompanied  on  his  home- 
ward travels  by  a  large,  red,  bony,  somewhat  trucu- 
169 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

lent  cow,  who  was  tied  on  behind  the  wagon,  and 
who  made  the  journey  a  lively  and  eventful  one  by 
her  total  lack  of  desire  to  proceed  over  the  road 
from  Edgewood  to  Acreville.  But  that,  the  cow's 
tale,  belongs  to  another  time  and  place,  and  the 
coward's  tale  must  come  first ;  for  Elisha  Simpson 
was  held  to  be  sadly  lacking  in  the  manly  quality 
of  courage. 

It  was  the  new  minister's  wife  who  called  Namby- 
Pamby  the  Little  Prophet.  His  full  name  was  Elisha 
Jeremiah  Simpson,  but  one  seldom  heard  it  at  full 
length,  since,  if  he  escaped  the  ignominy  of  Namby- 
Pamby,  'Lishe  was  quite  enough  for  an  urchin  just 
in  his  first  trousers  and  those  assumed  somewhat 
prematurely.  He  was  "'Lishe,"  therefore,  to  the 
village,  but  the  Little  Prophet  to  the  young  minis- 
ter's wife. 

Rebecca  could  see  the  Cames'  brown  farmhouse 
from  Mrs.  Baxter's  sitting-room  window.  The  lit- 
tle-traveled road  with  strips  of  tufted  green  be- 
tween the  wheel  tracks  curled  dustily  up  to  the 
very  doorstep,  and  inside  the  screen  door  of  pink 
mosquito  netting  was  a  wonderful  drawn-in  rug, 
shaped  like  a  half  pie,  with  "  Welcome  "  in  saffron 
letters  on  a  green  ground. 

Rebecca  liked  Mrs.  Cassius  Came,  who  was  a 
friend  of  her  Aunt  Miranda's  and  one  of  the  few 

170 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

persons  who  exchanged  calls  with  that  somewhat 
unsociable  lady.  The  Came  farm  was  not  a  long 
walk  from  the  brick  house,  for  Rebecca  could  go 
across  the  fields  when  haying-time  was  over,  and 
her  delight  at  being  sent  on  an  errand  in  that  di- 
rection could  not  be  measured,  now  that  the  new 
minister  and  his  wife  had  grown  to  be  such  a  re- 
source in  her  life.  She  liked  to  see  Mrs.  Came 
shake  the  Welcome  rug,  flinging  the  cheery  word 
out  into  the  summer  sunshine  like  a  bright  greeting 
to  the  day.  She  liked  to  see  her  go  to  the  screen 
door  a  dozen  times  in  a  morning,  open  it  a  crack 
and  chase  an  imaginary  fly  from  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts within.  She  liked  to  see  her  come  up  the 
cellar  steps  into  the  side  garden,  appearing  mys- 
teriously as  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  carrying 
a  shining  pan  of  milk  in  both  hands,  and  disappear- 
ing through  the  beds  of  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers 
to  the  pig-pen  or  the  hen-house. 

Rebecca  was  not  fond  of  Mr.  Came,  and  neither 
was  Mrs.  Baxter,  nor  Elisha,  for  that  matter;  in 
fact  Mr.  Came  was  rather  a  difficult  person  to 
grow  fond  of,  with  his  fiery  red  beard,  his  freckled 
skin,  and  his  gruff  way  of  speaking ;  for  there  were 
no  children  in  the  brown  house  to  smooth  the 
creases  from  his  forehead  or  the  roughness  from 
his  voice. 


171 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

ii 

The  new  minister's  wife  was  sitting  under  the 
shade  of  her  great  maple  early  one  morning,  when 
she  first  saw  the  Little  Prophet.  A  tiny  figure  came 
down  the  grass-grown  road  leading  a  cow  by  a  rope. 
If  it  had  been  a  small  boy  and  a  small  cow,  a  mid- 
dle-sized boy  and  an  ordinary  cow,  or  a  grown  man 
and  a  big  cow,  she  might  not  have  noticed  them  ; 
but  it  was  the  combination  of  an  infinitesimal  boy 
and  a  huge  cow  that  attracted  her  attention.  She 
could  not  guess  the  child's  years,  she  only  knew 
that  he  was  small  for  his  age,  whatever  it  was. 

The  cow  was  a  dark  red  beast  with  a  crumpled 
horn,  a  white  star  on  her  forehead,  and  a  large  sur- 
prised sort  of  eye.  She  had,  of  course,  two  eyes, 
and  both  were  surprised,  but  the  left  one  had  an 
added  hint  of  amazement  in  it  by  virtue  of  a  few 
white  hairs  lurking  accidentally  in  the  centre  of 
the  eyebrow. 

The  boy  had  a  thin  sensitive  face  and  curly  brown 
hair,  short  trousers  patched  on  both  knees,  and  a 
ragged  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head.  He  pat- 
tered along  behind  the  cow,  sometimes  holding  the 
rope  with  both  hands,  and  getting  over  the  ground 
in  a  jerky  way,  as  the  animal  left  him  no  time  to 
think  of  a  smooth  path  for  bare  feet. 

The  Came  pasture  was  a  good  half-mile  distant, 
172 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

and  the  cow  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  reach  it ;  ac- 
cordingly she  forsook  the  road  now  and  then,  and 
rambled  in  the  hollows,  where  the  grass  was  sweeter 
to  her  way  of  thinking.  She  started  on  one  of  these 
exploring  expeditions  just  as  she  passed  the  minis- 
ter's great  maple,  and  gave  Mrs.  Baxter  time  to  call 
out  to  the  little  fellow,  "  Is  that  your  cow  ? " 

Elisha  blushed  and  smiled,  and  tried  to  speak 
modestly,  but  there  was  a  quiver  of  pride  in  his 
voice  as  he  answered  suggestively  :  — . 

"  It 's  —  nearly  my  cow." 

"  How  is  that  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Baxter. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Came  says  when  I  drive  her  twenty- 
nine  more  times  to  pasture  'thout  her  gettin'  her 
foot  over  the  rope  or  'thout  my  bein'  afraid,  she  's 
goin'  to  be  my  truly  cow.  Are  you  'fraid  of 
cows  ? " 

"  Ye-e-es,"  Mrs.  Baxter  confessed,  "  I  am,  just  a 
little.  You  see,  I  am  nothing  but  a  woman,  and 
boys  can't  understand  how  we  feel  about  cows." 

"I  can !  They  're  awful  big  things,  are  n't  they  ?" 

"  Perfectly  enormous !  I  've  always  thought  a 
cow  coming  towards  you  one  of  the  biggest  things 
in  the  world." 

"  Yes  ;  me,  too.  Don't  let  's  think  about  it.  Do 
they  hook  people  so  very  often  ? " 

"  No  indeed,  in  fact  one  scarcely  ever  hears  of 
such  a  case." 

173 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"  If  they  stepped  on  your  bare  foot  they  'd 
scrunch  it,  would  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  the  driver ;  you  must  n't  let 
them  do  that ;  you  are  a  free-will  boy,  and  they  are 
nothing  but  cows." 

"  I  know  ;  but  p'r'aps  there  is  free-will  cows, 
and  if  they  just  would  do  it  you  could  n't  help  being 
scrunched,  for  you  must  n't  let  go  of  the  rope  nor 
run,  Mr.  Came  says." 

"  No,  of  course  that  would  never  do." 

"  Where  you  used  to  live  did  all  the  cows  go 
down  into  the  boggy  places  when  you  drove  'em 
to  pasture,  or  did  some  walk  in  the  road  ?  " 

"  There  were  n't  any  cows  or  any  pastures  where 
I  used  to  live  ;  that 's  what  makes  me  so  foolish  ; 
why  does  your  cow  need  a  rope  ? " 

"  She  don't  like  to  go  to  pasture,  Mr.  Came  says. 
Sometimes  she  'd  druther  stay  to  home,  and  so 
when  she  gets  part  way  she  turns  round  and  comes 
backwards." 

"Dear  me!"  thought  Mrs.  Baxter,  "what  be- 
comes of  this  boy-mite  if  the  cow  has  a  spell  of 
going  backwards?  —  Do  you  like  to  drive  her?" 
she  asked. 

"  N-no,  not  erzackly ;  but,  you  see,  it  '11  be  my 
cow  if  I  drive  her  twenty-nine  more  times  'thout 
her  gettin'  her  foot  over  the  rope  and  'thout  my 
bein'  afraid,"  and  a  beaming  smile  gave  a  transient 

174 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

brightness  to  his  harassed  little  face.  "  Will  she 
feed  in  the  ditch  much  longer?"  he  asked.  "Shall 
I  say  'Hurrap'?  That's  what  Mr.  Came  says  — 
' Hurrap  /'  like  that,  and  it  means  to  hurry  up." 

It  was  rather  a  feeble  warning  that  he  sounded, 
and  the  cow  fed  on  peacefully.  The  little  fellow 
looked  up  at  the  minister's  wife  confidingly,  and 
then  glanced  back  at  the  farm  to  see  if  Cassius 
Came  were  watching  the  progress  of  events. 

"  What  shall  we  do  next  ? "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Baxter  delighted  in  that  warm,  cosy  little 
"  we  ;  "  it  took  her  into  the  firm  so  pleasantly.  She 
was  a  weak  prop  indeed  when  it  came  to  cows,  but 
all  the  courage  in  her  soul  rose  to  arms  when  Elisha 
said,  "What  shall  we  do  next  ?"  She  became  alert, 
ingenious,  strong,  on  the  instant. 

"What  is  the  cow's  name?"  she  asked,  sitting 
up  straight  in  the  swing-chair. 

"  Buttercup  ;  but  she  don't  seem  to  know  it  very 
well.    She  ain't  a  mite  like  a  buttercup." 

"  Never  mind  ;  you  must  shout  '  Buttercup ! '  at 
the  top  of  your  voice,  and  twitch  the  rope  hard ; 
then  I  '11  call,  '  Hurrap  ! '  with  all  my  might  at  the 
same  moment.  And  if  she  starts  quickly  we  must  n't 
run  nor  seem  frightened  !  " 

They  did  this ;  it  worked  to  a  charm,  and  Mrs. 
Baxter  looked  affectionately  after  her  Little  Pro- 
phet as  the  cow  pulled  him  down  Tory  Hill. 
175 


NEW    CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

The  lovely  August  days  wore  on.  Rebecca  was 
often  at  the  parsonage  and  saw  Elisha  frequently,  but 
Buttercup  was  seldom  present  at  their  interviews, 
as  the  boy  now  drove  her  to  the  pasture  very  early 
in  the  morning,  the  journey  thither  being  one  of 
considerable  length  and  her  method  of  reaching  the 
goal  being  exceedingly  roundabout. 

Mr.  Came  had  pointed  out  the  necessity  of  get- 
ting her  into  the  pasture  at  least  a  few  minutes 
before  she  had  to  be  taken  out  again  at  night,  and 
though  Rebecca  did  n't  like  Mr.  Came,  she  saw 
the  common  sense  of  this  remark.  Sometimes  Mrs. 
Baxter  and  Rebecca  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  two  at 
sundown,  as  they  returned  from  the  pasture  to  the 
twilight  milking,  Buttercup  chewing  her  peaceful 
cud,  her  soft  white  bag  of  milk  hanging  full,  her 
surprised  eye  rolling  in  its  accustomed  "fine 
frenzy."  The  frenzied  roll  did  not  mean  anything, 
they  used  to  assure  Elisha ;  but  if  it  did  n't,  it  was 
an  awful  pity  she  had  to  do  it,  Rebecca  thought ; 
and  Mrs.  Baxter  agreed.  To  have  an  expression  of 
eye  that  meant  murder,  and  yet  to  be  a  perfectly 
virtuous  and  well-meaning  animal,  this  was  a 
calamity  indeed. 

Mrs.  Baxter  was  looking  at  the  sun  one  evening 
as  it  dropped  like  a  ball  of  red  fire  into  Wilkins's 
Woods,  when  the  Little  Prophet  passed. 

"  It 's  the  twenty-ninth  night,"  he  called  joyously. 
176 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  answered,  for  she  had  often 
feared  some  accident  might  prevent  his  claiming 
the  promised  reward.  "  Then  to-morrow  Buttercup 
will  be  your  own  cow  ? " 

"  I  guess  so.  That 's  what  Mr.  Came  said.  He 's 
off  to  Acreville  now,  but  he  '11  be  home  to-night, 
and  father's  going  to  send  my  new  hat  by  him. 
When  Buttercup's  my  own  cow  I  wish  I  could 
change  her  name  and  call  her  Red  Rover,  but 
p'r'aps  her  mother  would  n't  like  it.  When  she 
b'longs  to  me,  mebbe  I  won't  be  so  'fraid  of  gettin' 
hooked  and  scrunched,  because  she  '11  know  she 's 
mine,  and  she  '11  go  better.  I  have  n't  let  her  get 
snarled  up  in  the  rope  one  single  time,  and  I  don't 
show  I  'm  afraid,  do  I  ? " 

"  I  should  never  suspect  it  for  an  instant,"  said 
Mrs.  Baxter  encouragingly.  "  I  've  often  envied  you 
your  bold,  brave  look !  " 

Elisha  appeared  distinctly  pleased.  "I  haven't 
cried,  either,  when  she 's  dragged  me  over  the  pas- 
ture bars  and  peeled  my  legs.  Bill  Peters's  little 
brother  Charlie  says  he  ain't  afraid  of  anything, 
not  even  bears.  He  says  he  would  walk  right  up 
close  and  cuff  'em  if  they  dared  to  yip ;  but  I  ain't 
like  that !  He  ain't  scared  of  elephants  or  tigers 
or  lions  either ;  he  says  they  're  all  the  same  as 
frogs  or  chickens  to  him  !  " 

Rebecca  told  her  Aunt  Miranda  that  evening 
177 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

that  it  was  the  Prophet's  twenty-ninth  night,  and 
that  the  big  red  cow  was  to  be  his  on  the  morrow. 
"Well,  I  hope  it'll  turn  out  that  way,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  ain't  a  mite  sure  that  Cassius  Came  will 
give  up  that  cow  when  it  comes  to  the  point.  It 
won't  be  the  first  time  he 's  tried  to  crawl  out  of  a 
bargain  with  folks  a  good  deal  bigger  than  'Lisha, 
for  he 's  terrible  close,  Cassius  is.  To  be  sure  he  's 
stiff  in  his  joints  and  he 's  glad  enough  to  have  a 
boy  to  take  the  cow  to  the  pasture  in  summer-time, 
but  he  always  has  hired  help  when  it  comes  har- 
vestin'.  So  'Lisha  '11  be  no  use  from  this  on  ;  and 
I  dare  say  the  cow  is  Abner  Simpson's  anyway. 
If  you  want  a  walk  to-night,  I  wish  you  'd  go  up 
there  and  ask  Mis'  Came  if  she  '11  lend  me  an'  your 
Aunt  Jane  half  her  yeast-cake.  Tell  her  we  '11  pay 
it  back  when  we  get  ours  a  Saturday.  Don't  you 
want  to  take  Thirza  Meserve  with  you  ?  She  's 
alone  as  usual  while  Huldy  's  entertainin'  beaux  on 
the  side  porch.  Don't  stay  too  long  at  the  parson- 
age ! " 

III 

Rebecca  was  used  to  this  sort  of  errand,  for  the 
whole  village  of  Riverboro  would  sometimes  be 
rocked  to  the  very  centre  of  its  being  by  simulta- 
neous desire  for  a  yeast-cake.  As  the  nearest  re 
pository  was  a  mile  and  a  half  distant,  as  the  yeast 
i78 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

cake  was  valued  at  two  cents  and  would  n't  keep, 
as  the  demand  was  uncertain,  being  dependent  en- 
tirely on  a  fluctuating  desire  for  "riz  bread,"  the 
storekeeper  refused  to  order  more  than  three  yeast- 
cakes  a  day  at  his  own  risk.  Sometimes  they  re- 
mained on  his  hands  a  dead  loss  ;  sometimes  eight 
or  ten  persons  would  "hitch  up"  and  drive  from 
distant  farms  for  the  coveted  article,  only  to  be 
met  with  the  fiat,  "  No,  I  'm  all  out  o'  yeast-cake ; 
Mis'  Simmons  took  the  last ;  mebbe  you  can  borry 
half  o'  hern,  she  hain't  much  of  a  bread-eater." 

So  Rebecca  climbed  the  hills  to  Mrs.  Came's, 
knowing  that  her  daily  bread  depended  on  the 
successful  issue  of  the  call. 

Thirza  was  barefooted,  and  tough  as  her  little 
feet  were,  the  long  walk  over  the  stubble  fields 
tired  her.  When  they  came  within  sight  of  the 
Came  barn,  she  coaxed  Rebecca  to  take  a  short 
cut  through  the  turnips  growing  in  long,  beautifully 
weeded  rows. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Came  is  awfully  cross,  Thirza, 
and  can't  bear  anybody  to  tread  on  his  crops  or 
touch  a  tree  or  a  bush  that  belongs  to  him.  I  'm 
kind  of  afraid,  but  come  along  and  mind  you  step 
softly  in  between  the  rows  and  hold  up  your  petti- 
coat, so  you  can't  possibly  touch  the  turnip  plants. 
I  '11  do  the  same.  Skip  along  fast,  because  then  we 
won't  leave  any  deep  footprints." 
179 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

The  children  passed  safely  and  noiselessly  along, 
their  pleasure  a  trifle  enhanced  by  the  felt  dangers 
of  their  progress.  Rebecca  knew  that  they  were 
doing  no  harm,  but  that  did  not  prevent  her  hoping 
to  escape  the  gimlet  eye  of  Mr.  Came. 

As  they  neared  the  outer  edge  of  the  turnip 
patch  they  paused  suddenly,  petticoats  in  air. 

A  great  clump  of  elderberry  bushes  hid  them 
from  the  barn,  but  from  the  other  side  of  the  clump 
came  the  sound  of  conversation  :  the  timid  voice 
of  the  Little  Prophet  and  the  C'ruff  tones  of  Cas- 
sius  Came. 

Rebecca  was  afraid  to  interrupt,  and  too  honest 
to  wish  to  overhear.  She  could  only  hope  the  man 
and  the  boy  would  pass  on  to  the  house  as  they 
talked,  so  she  motioned  to  the  paralyzed  Thirza  to 
take  two  more  steps  and  stand  with  her  behind  the 
elderberry  bushes.  But  no !  in  a  moment  they 
heard  Mr.  Came  drag  a  stool  over  beside  the  grind- 
stone as  he  said  :  — 

"Well,  now,  Elisha  Jeremiah,  we'll  talk  about 
the  red  cow.  You  say  you've  drove  her  a  month, 
do  ye  ?  And  the  trade  between  us  was  that  if  you 
could  drive  her  a  month,  without  her  getting  the 
rope  over  her  foot  and  without  bein'  afraid,  you  was 
to  have  her.   That 's  straight,  ain't  it  ? " 

The  Prophet's  face  burned  with  excitement,  his 
gingham  shirt  rose  and  fell  as  if  he  were  breathing 

1 80 


THE  LITTLE   PROPHET 

hard,  but   he  only  nodded   assent  and   said  no- 
thing. 

"Now,"  continued  Mr.  Came,  "have  you  made 
out  to  keep  the  rope  from  under  her  feet  ? " 

"  She  ain't  got  t-t-tangled  up  one  s-single  time," 
said  Elisha,  stuttering  in  his  excitement,  but 
looking  up  with  some  courage  from  his  bare 
toes,  with  which  he  was  assiduously  threading  the 
grass. 

"  So  far,  so  good.  Now  'bout  bein'  afraid.  As  you 
seem  so  certain  of  gettin'  the  cow,  I  suppose  you 
hain't  been  a  speck  scared,  hev  you  ?  Honor  bright, 
now ! " 

"  I  —  I  —  not  but  just  a  little  mite.   I "  — 

"  Hold  up  a  minute.  Of  course  you  did  n't  say 
you  was  afraid,  and  did  n't  show  you  was  afraid,  and 
nobody  knew  you  was  afraid,  but  that  ain't  the  way 
we  fixed  it  up.  You  was  to  call  the  cow  your  'n  if 
you  could  drive  her  to  the  pasture  for  a  month 
without  beht  afraid.  Own  up  square  now,  hev  you 
be'n  afraid?" 

A  long  pause,  then  a  faint,  "Yes." 

"  Where  's  your  manners  ?  " 

"  I  mean  yes,  sir." 

"  How  often  ?  If  it  hain't  be'n  too  many  times 
mebbe  I  '11  let  ye  off,  though  you  're  a  reg'lar  girl- 
boy,  and  '11  be  runnin'  away  from  the  cat  bimeby. 
Has  it  be'n  —  twice  ?" 

181 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"  Yes,"  and  the  Little  Prophet's  voice  was  very 
faint  now,  and  had  a  decided  tear  in  it. 

"  Yes  what  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Has  it  be'n  four  times  ?  " 

"  Y-es,  sir."    More  heaving  of  the  gingham  shirt. 

"  Well,  you  air  a  thunderin'  coward  !  How  many 
times?    Speak  up  now." 

More  digging  of  the  bare  toes  in  the  earth,  and 
one  premonitory  tear  drop  stealing  from  under  the 
downcast  lids,  then, — 

"  A  little,  most  every  day,  and  you  can  keep  the 
cow,"  wailed  the  Prophet,  as  he  turned  abruptly 
and  fled  behind  the  shed,  where  he  flung  himself 
into  the  green  depths  of  a  tansy  bed,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  unmanly  sobs. 

Cassius  Came  gave  a  sort  of  shamefaced  guffaw 
at  the  abrupt  departure  of  the  boy,  and  went  on 
into  the  house,  while  Rebecca  and  Thirza  made  a 
stealthy  circuit  of  the  barn  and  a  polite  and  circum- 
spect entrance  through  the  parsonage  front  gate. 

Rebecca  told  the  minister's  wife  what  she  could 
remember  of  the  interview  between  Cassius  Came 
and  Elisha  Simpson,  and  tender-hearted  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter longed  to  seek  and  comfort  her  Little  Prophet 
sobbing  in  the  tansy  bed,  the  brand  of  coward  on 
his  forehead,  and  what  was  much  worse,  the  fear 
in  his  heart  that  he  deserved  it. 
182 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

Rebecca  could  hardly  be  prevented  from  beard- 
ing Mr.  Came  and  openly  espousing  the  cause  of 
Elisha,  for  she  was  an  impetuous,  reckless,  valiant 
creature  when  a  weaker  vessel  was  attacked  or 
threatened  unjustly. 

Mrs.  Baxter  acknowledged  that  Mr.  Came  had 
been  true,  in  a  way,  to  his  word  and  bargain,  but 
she  confessed  that  she  had  never  heard  of  so  cruel 
and  hard  a  bargain  since  the  days  of  Shylock, 
and  it  was  all  the  worse  for  being  made  with  a 
child. 

Rebecca  hurried  home,  her  visit  quite  spoiled 
and  her  errand  quite  forgotten  till  she  reached  the 
brick-house  door,  where  she  told  her  aunts,  with 
her  customary  picturesqueness  of  speech,  that  she 
would  rather  eat  buttermilk  bread  till  she  died  than 
partake  of  food  mixed  with  one  of  Mr.  Came's  yeast- 
cakes  ;  that  it  would  choke  her,  even  in  the  shape 
of  good  raised  bread. 

"  That 's  all  very  fine,  Rebecky,"  said  her  Aunt 
Miranda,  who  had  a  pin-prick  for  almost  every 
bubble ;  "  but  don't  forget  there  's  two  other 
mouths  to  feed  in  this  house,  and  you  might  at 
least  give  your  aunt  and  me  the  privilege  of  chokin' 
if  we  feel  to  want  to ! " 


183 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

IV 

Mrs.  Baxter  finally  heard  from  Mrs.  Came, 
through  whom  all  information  was  sure  to  filter 
if.  you  gave  it  time,  that  her  husband  despised 
a  coward,  that  he  considered  Elisha  a  regular 
mother's-apron-string  boy,  and  that  he  was  "  learn- 
in'  "  him  to  be  brave. 

Bill  Peters,  the  hired  man,  now  drove  Buttercup 
to  pasture,  though  whenever  Mr.  Came  went  to 
Moderation  or  Bonnie  Eagle,  as  he  often  did,  Mrs. 
Baxter  noticed  that  Elisha  took  the  hired  man's 
place.  She  often  joined  him  on  these  anxious  ex- 
peditions, and,  a  like  terror  in  both  their  souls,  they 
attempted  to  train  the  red  cow  and  give  her  some 
idea  of  obedience. 

"  If  she  only  would  n't  look  at  us  that  way  we 
would  get  along  real  nicely  with  her,  wouldn't 
we  ? "  prattled  the  Prophet,  straggling  along  by 
her  side;  "and  she  is  a  splendid  cow;  she  gives 
twenty-one  quarts  a  day,  and  Mr.  Came  says  it 's 
more  'n  half  cream." 

The  minister's  wife  assented  to  all  this,  thinking 
that  if  Buttercup  would  give  up  her  habit  of  turn- 
ing completely  round  in  the  road  to  roll  her  eyes 
and  elevate  her  white-tipped  eyebrow,  she  might 
indeed  be  an  enjoyable  companion  ;  but  in  her 
present  state  of  development  her  society  was  not 
184 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

agreeable,  even  did  she  give  sixty-one  quarts  of 
milk  a  day.  Furthermore,  when  Mrs.  Baxter  dis- 
covered that  she  never  did  any  of  these  reprehen- 
sible things  with  Bill  Peters,  she  began  to  believe 
cows  more  intelligent  creatures  than  she  had  sup- 
posed them  to  be,  and  she  was  indignant  to  think 
Buttercup  could  count  so  confidently  on  the  weak- 
ness of  a  small  boy  and  a  timid  woman. 

One  evening,  when  Buttercup  was  more  than 
usually  exasperating,  Mrs.  Baxter  said  to  the 
Prophet,  who  was  bracing  himself  to  keep  from 
being  pulled  into  a  wayside  brook  where  Buttercup 
loved  to  dabble,  "Elisha,  do  you  know  anything 
about  the  superiority  of  mind  over  matter  ? " 

No,  he  did  n't,  though  it  was  not  a  fair  time  to 
ask  the  question,  for  he  had  sat  down  in  the  road 
to  get  a  better  purchase  on  the  rope. 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  signify.  What  I  mean  is  that 
we  can  die  but  once,  and  it  is  a  glorious  thing  to 
die  for  a  great  principle.  Give  me  that  rope.  I 
can  pull  like  an  ox  in  my  present  frame  of  mind. 
You  run  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  brook, 
take  that  big  stick,  wade  right  in,  — you  are  bare- 
footed, —  brandish  the  stick,  and,  if  necessary,  do 
more  than  brandish.  I  would  go  myself,  but  it  is 
better  she  should  recognize  you  as  her  master,  and 
I  am  in  as  much  danger  as  you  are,  anyway.  She 
may  try  to  hook  you,  of  course,  but  you  must  keep 
IBs 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

waving  the  stick, — die  brandishing,  Prophet,  that 's 
the  idea !  She  may  turn  and  run  for  me,  in  which 
case  I  shall  run  too ;  but  I  shall  die  running,  and 
the  minister  can  bury  us  under  our  favorite  sweet- 
apple  tree ! " 

The  Prophet's  soul  was  fired  by  the  lovely  lady's 
eloquence.  Their  spirits  mounted  simultaneously, 
and  they  were  flushed  with  a  splendid  courage  in 
which  death  looked  a  mean  and  paltry  thing  com- 
pared with  vanquishing  that  cow.  She  had  already 
stepped  into  the  pool,  but  the  Prophet  waded  in 
towards  her,  moving  the  alder  branch  menacingly. 
She  looked  up  with  the  familiar  roll  of  the  eye 
that  had  done  her  such  good  service  all  summer, 
but  she  quailed  beneath  the  stern  justice  and  the 
new  valor  of  the  Prophet's  gaze. 

In  that  moment  perhaps  she  felt  ashamed  of  the 
misery  she  had  caused  the  helpless  mite.  At  any 
rate,  actuated  by  fear,  surprise,  or  remorse,  she 
turned  and  walked  back  into  the  road  without  a 
sign  of  passion  or  indignation,  leaving  the  boy  and 
the  lady  rather  disappointed  at  their  easy  victory. 
To  be  prepared  for  a  violent  death  and  receive 
not  even  a  scratch  made  them  fear  that  they  might 
possibly  have  overestimated  the  danger. 

They  were  better  friends  than  ever  after  that, 
the  young  minister's  wife  and  the  forlorn  little  boy 
from  Acreville,  sent  away  from  home  he  knew  not 
1 86 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

why,  unless  it  were  that  there  was  little  to  eat 
there  and  considerably  more  at  the  Cash  Cames',  as 
they  were  called  in  Edgewood.  Cassius  was  famil- 
iarly known  as  Uncle  Cash,  partly  because  there 
was  a  disposition  in  Edgewood  to  abbreviate  all 
Christian  names,  and  partly  because  the  old  man 
paid  cash,  and  expected  to  be  paid  cash,  for  every- 
thing. 

The  late  summer  grew  into  autumn,  and  the 
minister's  great  maple  flung  a  flaming  bough  of 
scarlet  over  Mrs.  Baxter's  swing-chair.  Uncle  Cash 
found  Elisha  very  useful  at  picking  up  potatoes 
and  apples,  but  the  boy  was  going  back  to  his 
family  as  soon  as  the  harvesting  was  over. 

One  Friday  evening  Mrs.  Baxter  and  Rebecca, 
wrapped  in  shawls  and  "fascinators,"  were  sitting 
on  Mrs.  Came's  front  steps  enjoying  the  sunset. 
Rebecca  was  in  a  tremulous  state  of  happiness,  for 
she  had  come  directly  from  the  Seminary  at  Ware- 
ham  to  the  parsonage,  and  as  the  minister  was 
absent  at  a  church  conference,  she  was  to  stay  the 
night  with  Mrs.  Baxter  and  go  with  her  to  Portland 
next  day. 

They  were  to  go  to  the  Islands,  have  ice  cream 
for  luncheon,  ride  on  a  horse-car,  and  walk  by  the 
Longfellow  house,  a  programme  that  so  unsettled 
Rebecca's  never  very  steady  mind  that  she  radiated 
flashes  and  sparkles  of  joy,  making  Mrs.  Baxter 
187 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

wonder  if  flesh  could  be  translucent,  enabling  the 
spirit-fires  within  to  shine  through  ? 

Buttercup  was  being  milked  on  the  grassy  slope 
near  the  shed  door.  As  she  walked  to  the  barn, 
after  giving  up  her  pailfuls  of  yellow  milk,  she 
bent  her  neck  and  snatched  a  hasty  bite  from  a 
pile  of  turnips  lying  temptingly  near.  In  her  haste 
she  took  more  of  a  mouthful  than  would  be  consid- 
ered good  manners  even  among  cows,  and  as  she 
disappeared  in  the  barn  door  they  could  see  a  forest 
of  green  tops  hanging  from  her  mouth,  while  she 
painfully  attempted  to  grind  up  the  mass  of  stolen 
material  without  allowing  a  single  turnip  to  escape. 

It  grew  dark  soon  afterward  and  they  went  into 
the  house  to  see  Mrs.  Came's  new  lamp  lighted  for 
the  first  time,  to  examine  her  last  drawn-in  rug 
(a  wonderful  achievement  produced  entirely  from 
dyed  flannel  petticoats),  and  to  hear  the  doctor's 
wife  play  "  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  on  the  dul- 
cimer. 

As  they  closed  the  sitting-room  door  opening  on 
the  piazza  facing  the  barn,  the  women  heard  the  cow 
coughing  and  said  to  one  another:  "  Buttercup  was 
too  greedy,  and  now  she  has  indigestion." 

Elisha  always  went  to  bed  at  sundown,  and 
Uncle  Cash  had  gone  to  the  doctor's  to  have  his 
hand  dressed,  for  he  had  hurt  it  in  some  way  in  the 
threshing-machine.  Bill  Peters,  the  hired  man,  came 

188 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

in  presently  and  asked  for  him,  saying  that  the 
cow  coughed  more  and  more,  and  it  must  be  that 
something  was  wrong,  but  he  could  not  get  her  to 
open  her  mouth  wide  enough  for  him  to  see  any- 
thing. "She'd  up  an'  die  ruther  'n  obleege  any- 
body, that  tarnal  ugly  cow  would  !  "  he  said. 

When  Uncle  Cash  had  driven  into  the  yard,  he 
came  in  for  a  lantern,  and  went  directly  out  to  the 
barn.  After  a  half-hour  or  so,  in  which  the  little 
party  had  forgotten  the  whole  occurrence,  he  came 
in  again. 

"I  'm  blamed  if  we  ain't  goin'  to  lose  that  cow," 
he  said.  "  Come  out,  will  ye,  Hannah,  and  hold  the 
lantern  ?  I  can't  do  anything  with  my  right  hand 
in  a  sling,  and  Bill  is  the  stupidest  critter  in  the 
country." 

Everybody  went  out  to  the  barn  accordingly, 
except  the  doctor's  wife,  who  ran  over  to  her  house 
to  see  if  her  brother  Moses  had  come  home  from 
Milltown,  and  could  come  and  take  a  hand  in  the 
exercises. 

Buttercup  was  in  a  bad  way ;  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it.  Something,  one  of  the  turnips,  presumably, 
had  lodged  in  her  throat,  and  would  move  neither 
way,  despite  her  attempts  to  dislodge  it.  Hei 
breathing  was  labored,  and  her  eyes  bloodshot  from 
straining  and  choking.  Once  or  twice  they  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  her  mouth  partly  open,  but  before 
189 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

they  could  fairly  discover  the  cause  of  trouble  she 
had  wrested  her  head  away. 

"  I  can  see  a  little  tuft  of  green  sticking  straight 
up  in  the  middle,"  said  Uncle  Cash,  while  Bill 
Peters  and  Moses  held  a  lantern  on  each  side  of 
Buttercup's  head;  "but,  land!  it's  so  far  down, 
and  such  a  mite  of  a  thing,  I  could  n't  git  it,  even 
if  I  could  use  my  right  hand.  S'pose  you  try, 
Bill." 

Bill  hemmed  and  hawed,  and  confessed  he  did  n't 
care  to  try.  Buttercup's  grinders  were  of  good  size 
and  excellent  quality,  and  he  had  no  fancy  for 
leaving  his  hand  within  her  jaws.  He  said  he  was 
no  good  at  that  kind  of  work,  but  that  he  would 
help  Uncle  Cash  hold  the  cow's  head  ;  that  was 
just  as  necessary,  and  considerable  safer. 

Moses  was  more  inclined  to  the  service  of  hu- 
manity, and  did  his  best,  wrapping  his  wrist  in  a 
cloth,  and  making  desperate  but  ineffectual  dabs 
at  the  slippery  green  turnip-tops  in  the  reluctantly 
opened  throat.  But  the  cow  tossed  her  head  and 
stamped  her  feet  and  switched  her  tail  and  wriggled 
from  under  Bill's  hands,  so  that  it  seemed  alto- 
gether impossible  to  reach  the  seat  of  the  trouble. 

Uncle  Cash  was  in  despair,  fuming  and  fretting 
the  more  because  of  his  own  crippled  hand. 

"Hitch  up,  Bill,"  he  said,  "and,  Hannah,  you 
drive  over  to  Milliken's  Mills  for  the  horse-doctor. 
190 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

I  know  we  can  git  out  that  turnip  if  we  can  hit  on 
the  right  tools  and  somebody  to  manage  'em  right ; 
but  we  've  got  to  be  quick  about  it  or  the  critter  '11 
choke  to  death,  sure  !  Your  hand  's  so  clumsy, 
Mose,  she  thinks  her  time  's  come  when  she  feels 
it  in  her  mouth,  and  your  fingers  are  so  big  you 
can't  ketch  holt  o'  that  green  stuff  'thout  its  slip- 
pin'!" 

"  Mine  ain't  big ;  let  me  try,"  said  a  timid  voice, 
and  turning  round,  they  saw  little  Elisha  Simpson, 
his  trousers  pulled  on  over  his  night-shirt,  his  curly 
hair  ruffled,  his  eyes  vague  with  sleep. 

Uncle  Cash  gave  a  laugh  of  good-humored  de- 
rision. "  You  —  that 's  afraid  to  drive  a  cow  to  pas- 
ture ?  No,  sir ;  you  hain't  got  sand  enough  for  this 
job,  I  guess  !  " 

Buttercup  just  then  gave  a  worse  cough  than 
ever,  and  her  eyes  rolled  in  her  head  as  if  she  were 
giving  up  the  ghost. 

"  I  'd  rather  do  it  than  see  her  choke  to  death!" 
cried  the  boy,  in  despair. 

"Then,  by  ginger,  you  can  try  it,  sonny! "  said 
Uncle  Cash.  "  Now  this  time  we  '11  tie  her  head 
up.    Take  it  slow,  and  make  a  good  job  of  it." 

Accordingly  they  pried  poor  Buttercup's  jaws 
open  to  put  a  wooden  gag  between  them,  tied  her 
head  up,  and  kept  her  as  still  as  they  could,  while 
the  women  held  the  lanterns. 
191 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"  Now,  sonny,  strip  up  your  sleeve  and  reach  as 
fur  down  's  you  can !  Wind  your  little  fingers  in 
among  that  green  stuff  stickin'  up  there  that  ain't 
hardly  big  enough  to  call  green  stuff,  give  it  a  twist, 
and  pull  for  all  you  're  worth.  Land  !  what  a  skinny 
little  pipe  stem  !  " 

The  Little  Prophet  had  stripped  up  his  sleeve. 
It  was  a  slender  thing,  his  arm  ;  but  he  had  driven 
the  red  cow  all  summer,  borne  her  tantrums,  pro- 
tected her  from  the  consequences  of  her  own  obsti- 
nacy, taking  (as  he  thought)  a  future  owner's  pride 
in  her  splendid  flow  of  milk  —  grown  fond  of  her, 
in  a  word,  and  now  she  was  choking  to  death.  A 
skinny  little  pipe  stem  is  capable  of  a  deal  at  such 
a  time,  and  only  a  slender  hand  and  arm  could  have 
done  the  work. 

Elisha  trembled  with  nervousness,  but  he  made 
a  dexterous  and  dashing  entrance  into  the  awful 
cavern  of  Buttercup's  mouth  ;  descended  upon  the 
tiny  clump  of  green  spills  or  spikes,  wound  his  little 
fingers  in  among  them  as  firmly  as  he  could,  and 
then  gave  a  long,  steady,  determined  pull  with  all 
the  strength  in  his  body.  That  was  not  so  much 
in  itself,  to  be  sure,  but  he  borrowed  a  good  deal 
more  from  some  reserve  quarter,  the  location  of 
which  nobody  knows  anything  about,  but  upon 
which  everybody  draws  in  time  of  need. 

Such  a  valiant  pull  you  would  never  have  expected 
192 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET 

of  the  Little  Prophet.  Such  a  pull  it  was  that,  to 
his  own  utter  amazement,  he  suddenly  found  him- 
self lying  flat  on  his  back  on  the  barn  floor  with  a 
very  slippery  something  in  his  hand,  and  a  fair- 
sized  but  rather  dilapidated  turnip  at  the  end  of  it. 

"That 's  the  business  !  "  cried  Moses. 

"  I  could  'a'  done  it  as  easy  as  nothin'  if  my  arm 
had  been  a  leetle  mite  smaller,"  said  Bill  Peters. 

"You're  a  trump,  sonny!"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Cash,  as  he  helped  Moses  untie  Buttercup's  head 
and  took  the  gag  out. 

"You're  a  trump,  'Lisha,  and,  by  ginger,  the 
cow's  your'n;  only  don't  you  let  your  blessed  pa 
drink  none  of  her  cream  !  " 

The  welcome  air  rushed  into  Buttercup's  lungs 
and  cooled  her  parched,  torn  throat.  She  was  pretty 
nearly  spent,  poor  thing,  and  bent  her  head  (rather 
gently  for  her)  over  the  Little  Prophet's  shoulder 
as  he  threw  his  arms  joyfully  about  her  neck,  and 
whispered,  "  You  're  my  truly  cow  now,  ain't  you„ 
Buttercup  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Baxter,  dear,"  said  Rebecca,  as  they  walked 
home  to  the  parsonage  together  under  the  young 
harvest  moon;  "there  are  all  sorts  of  coward^, 
are  n't  there,  and  don't  you  think  Elisha  is  one  of 
the  best  kind." 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  think  about  cowards, 
Rebecca  Rowena,"  said  the  minister's  wife  hesitat- 
193 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

ingly.  "The  Little  Prophet  is  the  third  coward  I 
have  known  in  my  short  life  who  turned  out  to  be 
a  hero  when  the  real  testing  time  came.  Meanwhile 
the  heroes  themselves  —  or  the  ones  that  were 
taken  for  heroes  —  were  always  busy  doing  some- 
thing, or  being  somewhere,  else." 


Eighth  Chronicle 
ABNER  SIMPSON'S  NEW  LEAF 


REBECCA  had  now  cut  the  bonds  that 
bound  her  to  the  Riverboro  district  school, 
and  had  been  for  a  week  a  full-fledged  pu- 
pil at  the  Wareham  Seminary,  towards  which  goal 
she  had  been  speeding  ever  since  the  memorable 
day  when  she  rode  into  Riverboro  on  the  top  of 
Uncle  Jerry  Cobb's  stagecoach,  and  told  him  that 
education  was  intended  to  be  "the  making  of  her." 

She  went  to  and  fro,  with  Emma  Jane  and  the 
other  Riverboro  boys  and  girls,  on  the  morning  and 
evening  trains  that  ran  between  the  academy  town 
and  Milliken's  Mills. 

The  six  days  had  passed  like  a  dream  !  —  a  dream 
in  which  she  sat  in  corners  with  her  eyes  cast  down  ; 
flushed  whenever  she  was  addressed ;  stammered 
whenever  she  answered  a  question,  and  nearly  died 
of  heart  failure  when  subjected  to  an  examination 
of  any  sort.  She  delighted  the  committee  when 
reading  at  sight  from  "  King  Lear,"  but  somewhat 
discouraged  them  when  she  could  not  tell  the  capi- 
tal of  the  United  States.  She  admitted  that  her 
195 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

former  teacher,  Miss  Dearborn,  might  have  men- 
tioned it,  but  if  so  she  had  not  remembered  it. 

In  these  first  weeks  among  strangers  she  passed 
for  nothing  but  an  interesting-looking,  timid,  inno- 
cent, country  child,  never  revealing,  even  to  the 
far-seeing  Emily  Maxwell,  a  hint  of  her  originality, 
facility,  or  power  in  any  direction.  Rebecca  was 
fourteen,  but  so  slight,  and  under  the  paralyzing 
new  conditions  so  shy,  that  she  would  have  been 
mistaken  for  twelve  had  it  not  been  for  her  gen- 
eral advancement  in  the  school  curriculum. 

Growing  up  in  the  solitude  of  a  remote  farm- 
house, transplanted  to  a  tiny  village  where  she  lived 
with  two  elderly  spinsters,  she  was  still  the  veriest 
child  in  all  but  the  practical  duties  and  responsibili- 
ties of  life  ;  in  those  she  had  long  been  a  woman. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon  ;  her  lessons  for  Mon- 
day were  all  learned  and  she  burst  into  the  brick- 
house  sitting-room  with  the  flushed  face  and  em- 
barrassed mien  that  always  foreshadowed  a  request. 
Requests  were  more  commonly  answered  in  the 
negative  than  in  the  affirmative  at  the  brick  house, 
a  fact  that  accounted  for  the  slight  confusion  in 
her  demeanor. 

"Aunt  Miranda,"  she  began,  "the  fishman  says 

that  Clara  Belle   Simpson  wants   to    see  me  very 

much,  but  Mrs.  Fogg  can't  spare  her  long  at  a 

time,  you  know,  on  account  of  the  baby  being  no 

196 


ABNER  SIMPSON'S  NEW   LEAF 

better ;  but  Clara  Belle  could  walk  a  mile  up,  and 
I  a  mile  down  the  road,  and  we  could  meet  at  the 
pink  house  half  way.  Then  we  could  rest  and  talk 
an  hour  or  so,  and  both  be  back  in  time  for  our 
suppers.  I  've  fed  the  cat ;  she  had  no  appetite,  as 
it 's  only  two  o'clock  and  she  had  her  dinner  at 
noon,  but  she  '11  go  back  to  her  saucer,  and  it 's  off 
my  mind.  I  could  go  down  cellar  now  and  bring  up 
the  cookies  and  the  pie  and  doughnuts  for  supper 
before  I  start.  Aunt  Jane  saw  no  objection;  but 
we  thought  I  'd  better  ask  you  so  as  to  run  no 
risks." 

Miranda  Sawyer,  who  had  been  patiently  waiting 
for  the  end  of  this  speech,  laid  down  her  knitting 
and  raised  her  eyes  with  a  half-resigned  expression 
that  meant:  Is  there  anything  unusual  in  heaven 
or  earth  or  the  waters  under  the  earth  that  this 
child  does  not  want  to  do  ?  Will  she  ever  settle 
down  to  plain,  comprehensible  Sawyer  ways,  or  will 
she  to  the  end  make  these  sudden  and  radical  pro- 
positions, suggesting  at  every  turn  the  irresponsi- 
ble Randall  ancestry  ? 

"  You  know  well  enough,  Rebecca,  that  I  don't 
like  you  to  be  intimate  with  Abner  Simpson's 
young  ones,"  she  said  decisively.  "  They  ain't  fit 
company  for  anybody  that's  got  Sawyer  blood  in 
their  veins,  if  it 's  ever  so  little.  I  don't  know,  I  'm 
sure,  how  you  're  goin'  to  turn  out !  The  fish  peddler 
197 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

seems  to  be  your  best  friend,  without  it's  Abijah 
Flagg  that  you  're  everlastingly  talkin'  to  lately.  I 
should  think  you'd  rather  read  some  improvin'  book 
than  to  be  chatterin'  with  Squire  Bean's  chore-boy ! " 

"  He  is  n't  always  going  to  be  a  chore-boy,"  ex- 
plained Rebecca,  "  and  that 's  what  we  're  consider- 
ing. It 's  his  career  we  talk  about,  and  he  has  n't 
got  any  father  or  mother  to  advise  him.  Besides, 
Clara  Belle  kind  of  belongs  to  the  village  now  that 
she  lives  with  Mrs.  Fogg ;  and  she  was  always  the 
best  behaved  of  all  the  girls,  either  in  school  or 
Sunday-school.  Children  can't  help  having  fa- 
thers ! " 

"  Everybody  says  Abner  is  turning  over  a  new 
leaf,  and  if  so,  the  family  'd  ought  to  be  encouraged 
every  possible  way,"  said  Miss  Jane,  entering  the 
room  with  her  mending  basket  in  hand. 

"  If  Abner  Simpson  is  turnin'  over  a  leaf,  or  any- 
thin'  else  in  creation,  it 's  only  to  see  what 's  on  the 
under  side !  "  remarked  Miss  Miranda  promptly. 
"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  new  leaves  !  You  can't 
change  that  kind  of  a  man  ;  he  is  what  he  is,  and 
you  can't  make  him  no  different !  " 

"  The  grace  of  God  can  do  consid'rable,"  ob- 
served Jane  piously. 

"  I  ain't  sayin'  but  it  can  if  it  sets  out,  but  it  has 
to  begin  early  and  stay  late  on  a  man  like  Simp- 
son." 

198 


ABNER  SIMPSON'S  NEW   LEAF 

"  Now,  Mirandy,  Abner  ain't  more  'n  forty !  I 
don't  know  what  the  average  age  for  repentance 
is  in  men-folks,  but  when  you  think  of  what  an 
awful  sight  of  'em  leaves  it  to  their  deathbeds, 
forty  seems  real  kind  of  young.  Not  that  I  've 
heard  Abner  has  experienced  religion,  but  every- 
body 's  surprised  at  the  good  way  he  's  conductin' 
this  fall." 

"  They  '11  be  surprised  the  other  way  round  when 
they  come  to  miss  their  firewood  and  apples  and 
potatoes  again,"  affirmed  Miranda. 

"  Clara  Belle  don't  seem  to  have  inherited  from 
her  father,"  Jane  ventured  again  timidly.  "No 
wonder  Mrs.  Fogg  sets  such  store  by  the  girl.  If 
it  had  n't  been  for  her,  the  baby  would  have  been 
dead  by  now." 

"  Perhaps  tryin'  to  save  it  was  interferin'  with 
the  Lord's  will,"  was  Miranda's  retort. 

"Folks  can't  stop  to  figure  out  just  what's  the 
Lord's  will  when  a  child  has  upset  a  kettle  of 
scalding  water  on  to  himself,"  and  as  she  spoke  Jane 
darned  more  excitedly.  "Mrs.  Fogg  knows  well 
enough  she  had  n't  ought  to  have  left  that  baby 
alone  in  the  kitchen  with  the  stove,  even  if  she  did 
see  Clara  Belle  comin'  across  lots.  She  'd  ought  to 
have  waited  before  drivin'  off ;  but  of  course  she 
was  afraid  of  missing  the  train,  and  she  's  too  good 
a  woman  to  be  held  accountable." 
199 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"The  minister's  wife  says  Clara  Belle  is  a  real  — 
I  can't  think  of  the  word ! "  chimed  in  Rebecca. 
"  What 's  the  female  of  hero  ?  Whatever  it  is,  that 's 
what  Mrs.  Baxter  called  her  !" 

"  Clara  Belle 's  the  female  of  Simpson  ;  that 's 
what  she  is,"  Miss  Miranda  asserted  :  "  but  she 's 
been  brought  up  to  use  her  wits,  and  I  ain't  sayin' 
but  she  used  'em." 

"  I  should  say  she  did  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Jane  ; 
"to  put  that  screaming,  suffering  child  in  the 
baby-carriage  and  run  all  the  way  to  the  doctor's 
when  there  was  n't  a  soul  on  hand  to  advise  her  ! 
Two  or  three  more  such  actions  would  make  the 
Simpson  name  sound  consid'rable  sweeter  in  this 
neighborhood." 

"Simpson  will  always  sound  like  Simpson  to 
me  ! "  vouchsafed  the  elder  sister,  "  but  we  've  talked 
enough  about  'em  an'  to  spare.  You  can  go  along, 
Rebecca ;  but  remember  that  a  child  is  known  by 
the  company  she  keeps." 

"All  right,  Aunt  Miranda;  thank  you!"  cried 
Rebecca,  leaping  from  the  chair  on  which  she  had 
been  twisting  nervously  for  five  minutes.  "  And 
how  does  this  strike  you  ?  Would  you  be  in  favor 
of  my  taking  Clara  Belle  a  company-tart  ?  " 

"  Don't  Mrs.  Fogg  feed  the  young  one,  now  she 's 
taken  her  right  into  the  family  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,"  Rebecca  answered,  "she  has  lovely 
200 


ABNER  SIMPSON'S  NEW   LEAF 

things  to  eat,  and  Mrs.  Fogg  won't  even  let  her 
drink  skim  milk ;  but  I  always  feel  that  taking  a 
present  lets  the  person  know  you  've  been  thinking 
about  them  and  are  extra  glad  to  see  them.  Besides, 
unless  we  have  company  soon,  those  tarts  will  have 
to  be  eaten  by  the  family,  and  a  new  batch  made ; 
you  remember  the  one  I  had  when  I  was  rewarding 
myself  last  week?  That  was  queer  —  but  nice," 
she  added  hastily. 

"  Mebbe  you  could  think  of  something  of  your 
own  you  could  give  away  without  taking  my  tarts !  " 
responded  Miranda  tersely  ;  the  joints  of  her  armor 
having  been  pierced  by  the  fatally  keen  tongue  of 
her  niece,  who  had  insinuated  that  company-tarts 
lasted  a  long  time  in  the  brick  house.  This  was  a 
fact ;  indeed,  the  company-tart  was  so  named,  not 
from  any  idea  that  it  would  ever  be  eaten  by  guests, 
but  because  it  was  too  good  for  every-day  use. 

Rebecca's  face  crimsoned  with  shame  that  she 
had  drifted  into  an  impolite  and,  what  was  worse, 
an  apparently  ungrateful  speech. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  v;o  say  anything  not  nice,  Aunt 
Miranda,"  she  stammered.  "Truly  the  tart  was 
splendid,  but  not  exactly  like  new,  that 's  all.  And 
oh !  I  know  what  I  can  take  Clara  Belle  !  A  few 
chocolate  drops  out  of  the  box  Mr.  Ladd  gave  me 
on  my  birthday." 

"  You  go  down  cellar  and  get  that  tart,  same  as 
201 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

I  told  you,"  commanded  Miranda,  "and  when  you 
fill  it  don't  uncover  a  new  tumbler  of  jelly ;  there 's 
some  dried-apple  preserves  open  that  '11  do.  Wear 
your  rubbers  and  your  thick  jacket.  After  runnin' 
all  the  way  down  there  —  for  your  legs  never  seem 
to  be  rigged  for  walkin'  like  other  girls'  — you  '11  set 
down  on  some  damp  stone  or  other  and  ketch  your 
death  o'  cold,  an'  your  Aunt  Jane  'n'  I  '11  be  kep' 
up  nights  nursin'  you  and  luggin'  your  meals  up- 
stairs to  you  on  a  waiter." 

Here  Miranda  leaned  her  head  against  the  back 
of  her  rocking-chair,  dropped  her  knitting  and 
closed  her  eyes  wearily ;  for  when  the  immovable 
body  is  opposed  by  the  irresistible  force  there  is  a 
certain  amount  of  jar  and  disturbance  involved  in 
the  operation. 

Rebecca  moved  toward  the  side  door,  shooting 
a  questioning  glance  at  Aunt  Jane  as  she  passed. 
The  look  was  full  of  mysterious  suggestion  and 
was  accompanied  by  an  almost  imperceptible  ges- 
ture. Miss  Jane  knew  that  certain  articles  were 
kept  in  the  entry  closet,  and  by  this  time  she  had 
become  sufBciently  expert  in  telegraphy  to  know 
that  Rebecca's  unspoken  query  meant :  "  Could  you 
permit  the  hat  with  the  red  wings,  it  being  Satur- 
day, fine  settled  weather,  and  a  pleasure  excursion  f" 

These  confidential  requests,  though  fraught  with 
embarrassment  when  Miranda  was  in  the  room, 

202 


ABNER   SIMPSON'S   NEW   LEAF 

gave  Jane  much  secret  joy  ;  there  was  something 
about  them  that  stirred  her  spinster  heart  —  they 
were  so  gay,  so  appealing,  so  un-Sawyer-,  un-River- 
boro-like.  The  longer  Rebecca  lived  in  the  brick 
house  the  more  her  Aunt  Jane  marveled  at  the 
child.  What  made  her  so  different  from  everybody 
else.  Could  it  be  that  her  graceless  popinjay  of  a 
father,  Lorenzo  de  Medici  Randall,  had  bequeathed 
her  some  strange  combination  of  gifts  instead  of 
fortune  ?  Her  eyes,  her  brows,  the  color  of  her 
lips,  the  shape  of  her  face,  as  well  as  her  ways  and 
words,  proclaimed  her  a  changeling  in  the  Sawyer 
tribe ;  but  what  an  enchanting  changeling ;  bring- 
ing wit  and  nonsense  and  color  and  delight  into 
the  gray  monotony  of  the  dragging  years ! 

There  was  frost  in  the  air,  but  a  bright,  cheery 
sun,  as  Rebecca  walked  decorously  out  of  the  brick- 
house  yard.  Emma  Jane  Perkins  was  away  over 
Sunday  on  a  visit  to  a  cousin  in  Moderation  ;  Alice 
Robinson  and  Candace  Milliken  were  having  mea- 
sles, and  Riverboro  was  very  quiet.  Still,  life  was 
seldom  anything  but  a  gay  adventure  to  Rebecca, 
and  she  started  afresh  every  morning  to  its  con- 
quest. She  was  not  exacting  ;  the  Asmodean  feat 
of  spinning  a  sand  heap  into  twine  was,  poetically 
speaking,  always  in  her  power,  so  the  mile  walk  to 
the  pink-house  gate,  and  the  tryst  with  freckled, 
red-haired  Clara  Belle  Simpson,  whose  face  Miss 
203 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

Miranda  said  looked  like  a  raw  pie  in  a  brick  oven, 
these  commonplace  incidents  were  sufficiently  ex- 
hilaratingto  brighten  her  eye  and  quicken  her  step. 

As  the  great  bare  horse-chestnut  near  the  pink- 
house  gate  loomed  into  view,  the  red  linsey-woolsey 
speck  going  down  the  road  spied  the  blue  linsey- 
woolsey  speck  coming  up,  and  both  specks  flew 
over  the  intervening  distance  and,  meeting,  em- 
braced each  other  ardently,  somewhat  to  the  injury 
of  the  company-tart. 

"  Did  n't  it  come  out  splendidly  ? "  exclaimed  Re- 
becca. "  I  was  so  afraid  the  fishman  would  n't  tell 
you  to  start  exactly  at  two,  or  that  one  of  us  would 
walk  faster  than  the  other ;  but  we  met  at  the  very 
spot !  It  was  a  very  uncommon  idea,  was  n't  it  ? 
Almost  romantic !  " 

"And  what  do  you  think?"  asked  Clara  Belle 
proudly.  "  Look  at  this !  Mrs.  Fogg  lent  me  her 
watch  to  come  home  by !  " 

"  Oh,  Clara  Belle,  how  wonderful !  Mrs.  Fogg 
gets  kinder  and  kinder  to  you,  does  n't  she  ?  You  're 
not  homesick  any  more,  are  you  ? " 

"  No-o ;  not  really ;  only  when  I  remember 
there 's  only  little  Susan  to  manage  the  twins  : 
though  they're  getting  on  real  well  without  me. 
But  I  kind  of  think,  Rebecca,  that  I  'm  going  to  be 
given  away  to  the  Foggs  for  good." 

"  Do  you  mean  adopted  ? " 
204 


ABNER   SIMPSON'S   NEW   LEAF 

"Yes;  I  think  father's  going  to  sign  papers. 
You  see  we  can't  tell  how  many  years  it  '11  be  be- 
fore the  poor  baby  outgrows  its  burns,  and  Mrs. 
Fogg '11  never  be  the  same  again,  and  she  must 
have  somebody  to  help  her." 

"  You  '11  be  their  real  daughter,  then,  won't  you, 
Clara  Belle  ?  And  Mr.  Fogg  is  a  deacon,  and  a 
selectman,  and  a  road  commissioner,  and  every- 
thing splendid." 

"  Yes ;  I  '11  have  board,  and  clothes,  and  school, 
and  be  named  Fogg,  and  "  (here  her  voice  sank  to 
an  awed  whisper)  "the  upper  farm  if  I  should 
ever  get  married ;  Miss  Dearborn  told  me  that 
herself,  when  she  was  persuading  me  not  to  mind 
being  given  away." 

"  Clara  Belle  Simpson ! "  exclaimed  Rebecca  in 
a  transport.  "  Who  'd  have  thought  you  'd  be  a 
female  hero  and  an  heiress  besides?  It's  just  like 
a  book  story,  and  it  happened  in  Riverboro.  I  '11 
make  Uncle  Jerry  Cobb  allow  there  can  be  River- 
boro stories,  you  see  if  I  don't." 

"Of  course  I  know  it's  all  right,"  Clara  Belle 
replied  soberly.  "  I  '11  have  a  good  home  and  father 
can't  keep  us  all ;  but  it 's  kind  of  dreadful  to  be 
given  away,  like  a  piano  or  a  horse  and  carriage ! " 

Rebecca's  hand  went  out  sympathetically  to  Clara 
Belle's  freckled  paw.  Suddenly  her  own  face  clouded 
and  she  whispered: — 

205 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"  I  'm  not  sure,  Clara  Belle,  but  I  'm  given  away 
too  —  do  you  s'pose  I  am  ?  Poor  father  left  us  in 
debt,  you  see.  I  thought  I  came  away  from  Sunny- 
brook  to  get  an  education  and  then  help  pay  off  the 
mortgage  ;  but  mother  does  n't  say  anything  about 
my  coming  back,  and  our  family 's  one  of  those  too- 
big  ones,  you  know,  just  like  yours." 

"  Did  your  mother  sign  papers  to  your  aunts  ? " 

"  If  she  did  I  never  heard  anything  about  it ; 
but  there 's  something  pinned  on  to  the  mortgage 
that  mother  keeps  in  the  drawer  of  the  bookcase." 

"You'd  know  it  if  'twas  adoption  papers;  I 
guess  you  're  just  lent,"  Clara  Belle  said  cheeringly. 
"  I  don't  believe  anybody  'd  ever  give  you  away ! 
And,  oh !  Rebecca,  father 's  getting  on  so  well ! 
He  works  on  Daly's  farm  where  they  raise  lots  of 
horses  and  cattle,  too,  and  he  breaks  all  the  young 
colts  and  trains  them,  and  swaps  off  the  poor  ones, 
and  drives  all  over  the  country.  Daly  told  Mr. 
Fogg  he  was  splendid  with  stock,  and  father  says 
it's  just  like  play.  He's  sent  home  money  three 
Saturday  nights." 

"  I  'm  so  glad  ! "  exclaimed  Rebecca  sympatheti- 
cally. "  Now  your  mother  '11  have  a  good  time  and 
a  black  silk  dress,  won't  she  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  sighed  Clara  Belle,  and  her  voice 
was  grave.  "  Ever  since  I  can  remember  she 's  just 
washed  and  cried  and  cried  and  washed.  Miss 
206 


ABNER   SIMPSON'S   NEW   LEAF 

Dearborn  has  been  spending  her  vacation  up  to 
Acreville,  you  know,  and  she  came  yesterday  to 
board  next  door  to  Mrs.  Fogg's.  I  heard  them 
talking  last  night  when  I  was  getting  the  baby  to 
sleep  —  I  couldn't  help  it,  they  were  so  close  — 
and  Miss  Dearborn  said  mother  doesn't  like  Acre- 
ville ;  she  says  nobody  takes  any  notice  of  her,  and 
they  don't  give  her  any  more  work.  Mrs.  Fogg  said, 
well,  they  were  dreadful  stiff  and  particular  up  that 
way  and  they  liked  women  to  have  wedding-rings." 

"  Has  n't  your  mother  got  a  wedding-ring  ?  " 
asked  Rebecca,  astonished.  "Why,  I  thought  every- 
body had  to  have  them,  just  as  they  do  sofas  and 
a  kitchen  stove  !  " 

"  I  never  noticed  she  did  n't  have  one,  but  when 
they  spoke  I  remembered  mother's  hands  washing 
and  wringing,  and  she  does  n't  wear  one,  I  know. 
She  hasn't  got  any  jewelry,  not  even  a  breast- 
pin. 

"Well,"  and  Rebecca's  tone  was  somewhat  cen- 
sorious, "your  father's  been  so  poor  perhaps  he 
could  n't  afford  breast-pins,  but  I  should  have 
thought  he  'd  have  given  your  mother  a  wedding- 
ring  when  they  were  married ;  that 's  the  time  to 
do  it,  right  at  the  very  first." 

"  They  did  n't  have  any  real  church  dress-up  wed- 
ding," explained  Clara  Belle  extenuatingly.  "  You 
see  the  first  mother,  mine,  had  the  big  boys  and 
207 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

me,  and  then  she  died  when  we  were  little.  Then 
after  a  while  this  mother  came  to  housekeep,  and  she 
stayed,  and  by  and  by  she  was  Mrs.  Simpson,  and 
Susan  and  the  twins  and  the  baby  are  hers,  and  she 
and  father  did  n't  have  time  for  a  regular  wedding 
in  church.  They  don't  have  veils  and  bridesmaids 
and  refreshments  round  here  like  Miss  Dearborn's 
sister  did." 

"  Do  they  cost  a  great  deal  —  wedding-rings  ? " 
asked  Rebecca  thoughtfully.  "  They  're  solid  gold, 
so  I  s'pose  they  do.  If  they  were  cheap  we  might 
buy  one.  I  've  got  seventy-four  cents  saved  up ; 
how  much  have  you  ?  " 

"Fifty-three,"  Clara  Belle  responded,  in  a  depress- 
ing tone;  "and  anyway  there  are  no  stores  nearer 
than  Milltown.  We  'd  have  to  buy  it  secretly,  for  I 
wouldn't  make  father  angry,  or  shame  his  pride, 
now  he 's  got  steady  work  ;  and  mother  would  know 
I  had  spent  all  my  savings." 

Rebecca  looked  nonplussed.  "  I  declare,"  she 
said,  "  I  think  the  Acreville  people  must  be  per- 
fectly horrid  not  to  call  on  your  mother  only  be- 
cause she  hasn't  got  any  jewelry.  You  would  n't 
dare  tell  your  father  what  Miss  Dearborn  heard, 
so  he  'd  save  up  and  buy  the  ring  ?  " 

"No ;  I  certainly  would  not !  "  and  Clara  Belle's 
lips  closed  tightly  and  decisively. 

Rebecca  sat  quietly  for  a  few  moments,  then  she 
208 


ABNER   SIMPSON'S  NEW   LEAF 

exclaimed  jubilantly :  "  I  know  where  we  could 
get  it !  From  Mr.  Aladdin,  and  then  I  need  n't  tell 
him  who  it 's  for !  He's  coming  to  stay  over  to- 
morrow with  his  aunt,  and  I  '11  ask  him  to  buy  a 
ring  for  us  in  Boston.  I  won't  explain  anything, 
you  know ;  I  '11  just  say  I  need  a  wedding-ring." 

"  That  would  be  perfectly  lovely,"  replied  Clara 
Belle,  a  look  of  hope  dawning  in  her  eyes ;  "  and 
we  can  think  afterwards  how  to  get  it  over  to 
mother.  Perhaps  you  could  send  it  to  father  in- 
stead, but  I  would  n't  dare  to  do  it  myself.  You 
won't  tell  anybody,  Rebecca  ?  " 

"Cross  my  heart!"  Rebecca  exclaimed  dramati- 
cally ;  and  then  with  a  reproachful  look,  "you  know 
I  could  n't  repeat  a  sacred  secret  like  that !  Shall 
we  meet  next  Saturday  afternoon,  and  I  tell  you 
what 's  happened  ?  —  Why,  Clara  Belle,  is  n't  that 
Mr.  Ladd  watering  his  horse  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
this  very  minute  ?  It  is ;  and  he 's  driven  up  from 
Milltown  'stead  of  coming  on  the  train  from  Boston 
to  Edgewood.  He 's  all  alone,  and  I  can  ride  home 
with  him  and  ask  him  about  the  ring  right  away ! " 

Clara  Belle  kissed  Rebecca  fervently,  and  started 
on  her  homeward  walk,  while  Rebecca  waited  at 
the  top  of  the  long  hill,  fluttering  her  handkerchief 
as  a  signal. 

"  Mr.  Aladdin  I  Mr.  Aladdin !  "  she  cried,  as  the 
horse  and  wagon  came  nearer. 
209 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Adam  Ladd  drew  up  quickly  at  the  sound  of  the 
eager  young  voice. 

"  Well,  well ;  here  is  Rebecca  Rowena  fluttering 
along  the  highroad  like  a  red-winged  blackbird ! 
Are  you  going  to  fly  home,  or  drive  with  me  ? " 

Rebecca  clambered  into  the  carriage,  laughing 
and  blushing  with  delight  at  his  nonsense  and  with 
joy  at  seeing  him  again. 

"  Clara  Belle  and  I  were  just  talking  about  you 
this  minute,  and  I  'm  so  glad  you  came  this  way,  for 
there 's  something  very  important  to  ask  you  about," 
she  began,  rather  breathlessly. 

"No  doubt,"  laughed  Adam  Ladd,  who  had  be- 
come, in  the  course  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Rebecca,  a  sort  of  high  court  of  appeals  ;  "  I  hope 
the  premium  banquet  lamp  does  n't  smoke  as  it 
grows  older  ? " 

"Now,  Mr.  Aladdin,  you  will  not  remember 
nicely.  Mr.  Simpson  swapped  off  the  banquet  lamp 
when  he  was  moving  the  family  to  Acreville;  it's 
not  the  lamp  at  all,  but  once,  when  you  were  here 
last  time,  you  said  you  'd  make  up  your  mind  what 
you  were  going  to  give  me  for  Christmas." 

"I  do  remember  that  much  quite  nicely." 

"  Well,  is  it  bought  ?  " 

"No,  I  never  buy  Christmas  presents  before 
Thanksgiving." 

"  Then,  dear  Mr.  Aladdin,  would  you  buy  me 
210 


ABNER   SIMPSON'S   NEW   LEAF 

something  different,  something  that  I  want  to  give 
away,  and  buy  it  a  little  sooner  than  Christmas  ? " 

"  That  depends.  I  don't  relish  having  my  Christ- 
mas presents  given  away.  I  like  to  have  them  kept 
forever  in  little  girls'  bureau  drawers,  all  wrapped 
in  pink  tissue  paper;  but  explain  the  matter  and 
perhaps  I  '11  change  my  mind.  What  is  it  you 
want  ? " 

"I  need  a  wedding-ring  dreadfully,"  said  Re- 
becca, "  but  it 's  a  sacred  secret." 

Adam  Ladd's  eyes  flashed  with  surprise  and  he 
smiled  to  himself  with  pleasure.  Had  he  on  his  list 
of  acquaintances,  he  asked  himself,  a  person  of  any 
age  or  sex  so  altogether  irresistible  and  unique  as 
this  child  ?  Then  he  turned  to  face  her  with  the 
merry  teasing  look  that  made  him  so  delightful  to 
young  people. 

"  I  thought  it  was  perfectly  understood  between 
us,"  he  said,  "that  if  you  could  ever  contrive  to 
grow  up  and  I  were  willing  to  wait,  that  I  was  to 
ride  up  to  the  brick  house  on  my  snow  white  "  — 

"  Coal  black,"  corrected  Rebecca,  with  a  spar- 
kling eye  and  a  warning  finger. 

"  Coal  black  charger ;  put  a  golden  circlet  on 
your  lily  white  finger,  draw  you  up  behind  me  on 
my  pillion  "  — 

"And  Emma  Jane,  too,"  Rebecca  interrupted. 

"I  think  I  didn't  mention  Emma  Jane,"  argued 

211 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

Mr.  Aladdin.  "  Three  on  a  pillion  is  very  uncom- 
fortable. I  think  Emma  Jane  leaps  on  the  back  of 
a  prancing  chestnut,  and  we  all  go  off  to  my  castle 
in  the  forest." 

"  Emma  Jane  never  leaps,  and  she'd  be  afraid  of 
a  prancing  chestnut,"  objected  Rebecca. 

"Then  she  shall  have  a  gentle  cream-colored 
pony ;  but  now,  without  any  explanation,  you  ask 
me  to  buy  you  a  wedding-ring,  which  shows  plainly 
that  you  are  planning  to  ride  off  on  a  snow  white 
—  I  mean  coal  black  —  charger  with  somebody 
else." 

Rebecca  dimpled  and  laughed  with  joy  at  the 
nonsense.  In  her  prosaic  world  no  one  but  Adam 
Ladd  played  the  game  and  answered  the  fool  ac- 
cording to  his  folly.  Nobody  else  talked  delicious 
fairy-story  twaddle  but  Mr.  Aladdin. 

"  The  ring  is  n't  for  me  /  "  she  explained  carefully. 
"  You  know  very  well  that  Emma  Jane  nor  I  can't 
be  married  till  we're  through  Quackenbos's  Gram- 
mar, Greenleaf's  Arithmetic,  and  big  enough  to 
wear  long  trails  and  run  a  sewing-machine.  The 
ring  is  for  a  friend." 

"  Why  does  n't  the  groom  give  it  to  his  bride 
himself?" 

"  Because  he 's  poor  and  kind  of  thoughtless,  and 
anyway  she  isn't  a  bride  any  more ;  she  has  three 
step  and  three  other  kind  of  children." 

212 


ABNER  SIMPSON'S  NEW   LEAF 

Adam  Ladd  put  the  whip  back  in  the  socket 
thoughtfully,  and  then  stooped  to  tuck  in  the  rug 
over  Rebecca's  feet  and  his  own.  When  he  raised 
his  head  again  he  asked  :  "  Why  not  tell  me  a  little 
more,  Rebecca  ?   I  'm  safe  !  " 

Rebecca  looked  at  him,  feeling  his  wisdom  and 
strength,  and  above  all  his  sympathy.  Then  she 
said  hesitatingly :  "  You  remember  I  told  you  all 
about  the  Simpsons  that  day  on  your  aunt's  porch 
when  you  bought  the  soap  because  I  told  you  how 
the  family  were  always  in  trouble  and  how  much 
they  needed  a  banquet  lamp?  Mr.  Simpson,  Clara 
Belle's  father,  has  always  been  very  poor,  and  not 
always  very  good,  —  a  little  bit  thievish,  you  know, 
—  but  oh,  so  pleasant  and  nice  to  talk  to !  and  now 
he  's  turning  over  a  new  leaf.  And  everybody  in 
Riverboro  liked  Mrs.  Simpson  when  she  came  here 
a  stranger,  because  they  were  sorry  for  her  and  she 
was  so  patient,  and  such  a  hard  worker,  and  so  kind 
to  the  children.  But  where  she  lives  now,  though 
they  used  to  know  her  when  she  was  a  girl,  they  're 
not  polite  to  her  and  don't  give  her  scrubbing  and 
washing ;  and  Clara  Belle  heard  our  teacher  say  to 
Mrs.  Fogg  that  the  Acreville  people  were  stiff,  and 
despised  her  because  she  didn't  wear  a  wedding- 
ring,  like  all  the  rest.  And  Clara  Belle  and  I 
thought  if  they  were  so  mean  as  that,  we  'd  love  to 
give  her  one,  and  then  she  'd  be  happier  and  have 
213 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

more  work;  and  perhaps  Mr.  Simpson  if  he  gets 
along  better  will  buy  her  a  breast-pin  and  earrings, 
and  she'll  be  fitted  out  like  the  others.  I  know 
Mrs.  Peter  Meserve  is  looked  up  to  by  everybody 
in  Edgewood  on  account  of  her  gold  bracelets  and 
moss  agate  necklace." 

Adam  turned  again  to  meet  the  luminous,  inno- 
cent eyes  that  glowed  under  the  delicate  brows  and 
long  lashes,  feeling  as  he  had  more  than  once  felt 
before,  as  if  his  worldly-wise,  grown-up  thoughts 
had  been  bathed  in  some  purifying  spring. 

"  How  shall  you  send  the  ring  to  Mrs.  Simp- 
son ? "  he  asked,  with  interest. 

"  We  have  n't  settled  yet ;  Clara  Belle  's  afraid  to 
do  it,  and  thinks  I  could  manage  better.  Will  the 
ring  cost  much  ?  because,  of  course,  if  it  does,  I 
must  ask  Aunt  Jane  first.  There  are  things  I  have 
to  ask  Aunt  Miranda,  and  others  that  belong  to 
Aunt  Jane." 

"  It  costs  the  merest  trifle.  I  '11  buy  one  and 
bring  it  to  you,  and  we  '11  consult  about  it ;  but  I 
think  as  you  're  great  friends  with  Mr.  Simpson 
you  'd  better  send  it  to  him  in  a  letter,  letters 
being  your  strong  point !  It's  a  present  a  man 
ought  to  give  his  own  wife,  but  it's  worth  trying, 
Rebecca.  You  and  Clara  Belle  can  manage  it 
between  you,  and  I  '11  stay  in  the  background  where 
nobody  will  see  me." 


Ninth  Chronicle 
THE   GREEN   ISLE 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  sea  of  misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  weary  way. 

Shelley. 

MEANTIME  in  these  frosty  autumn  days 
life  was  crowded  with  events  in  the 
lonely  Simpson  house  at  Acreville. 
The  tumble-down  dwelling  stood  on  the  edge  of 
Pliny's  Pond ;  so  called  because  old  Colonel  Rich- 
ardson left  his  lands  to  be  divided  in  five  equal 
parts,  each  share  to  be  chosen  in  turn  by  one  of 
his  five  sons,  Pliny,  the  eldest,  having  priority  of 
choice. 

Pliny  Richardson,  having  little  taste  for  farming, 
and  being  ardently  fond  of  fishing,  rowing,  and 
swimming,  acted  up  to  his  reputation  of  being  "a 
little  mite  odd,"  and  took  his  whole  twenty  acres 
in  water  —  hence  Pliny's  Pond. 

The  eldest  Simpson  boy  had  been  working  on  a 
farm  in  Cumberland  County  for  two  years.  Samuel, 
215 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

generally  dubbed  "See-saw,"  had  lately  found  a 
humble  place  in  a  shingle  mill  and  was  partially 
self-supporting.  Clara  Belle  had  been  adopted  by 
the  Foggs  ;  thus  there  were  only  three  mouths  to 
fill,  the  capacious  ones  of  Elijah  and  Elisha,  the 
twin  boys,  and  d  lisping,  nine-year-old  Susan,  the 
capable  houseworker  and  mother's  assistant,  for 
the  baby  had  died  during  the  summer ;  died  of  dis- 
couragement at  having  been  born  into  a  family 
unprovided  with  food  or  money  or  love  or  care,  or 
even  with  desire  for,  or  appreciation  of,  babies. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  erratic  father  of 
the  house  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  Exactly 
when  he  began,  or  how,  or  why,  or  how  long  he 
would  continue  the  praiseworthy  process,  —  in  a 
word  whether  there  would  be  more  leaves  turned 
as  the  months  went  on,  —  Mrs.  Simpson  did  not 
know,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  any  authority  lower  than 
that  of  Mr.  Simpson's  Maker  could  have  decided 
the  matter.  He  had  stolen  articles  for  swapping 
purposes  for  a  long  time,  but  had  often  avoided 
detection,  and  always  escaped  punishment  until 
the  last  few  years.  Three  fines  imposed  for  small 
offenses  were  followed  by  several  arrests  and  two 
imprisonments  for  brief  periods,  and  he  found  him- 
self wholly  out  of  sympathy  with  the  wages  of  sin. 
Sin  itself  he  did  not  especially  mind,  but  the  wages 
thereof  were  decidedly  unpleasant  and  irksome  to 
216 


THE   GREEN   ISLE 

him.  He  also  minded  very  much  the  isolated  posi- 
tion in  the  community  which  had  lately  become 
his  ;  for  he  was  a  social  being  and  would  almost 
rather  not  steal  from  a  neighbor  than  have  him 
find  it  out  and  cease  intercourse !  This  feeling  was 
working  in  him  and  rendering  him  unaccountably 
irritable  and  depressed  when  he  took  his  daughter 
over  to  Riverboro  at  the  time  of  the  great  flag- 
raising. 

There  are  seasons  of  refreshment,  as  well  as 
seasons  of  drought,  in  the  spiritual,  as  in  the 
natural  world,  and  in  some  way  or  other  dews  and 
rains  of  grace  fell  upon  Abner  Simpson's  heart 
during  that  brief  journey.  Perhaps  the  giving 
away  of  a  child  that  he  could  not  support  had 
made  the  soil  of  his  heart  a  little  softer  and  readier 
for  planting  than  usual ;  but  when  he  stole  the 
new  flag  off  Mrs.  Peter's  Meserve's  doorsteps, 
under  the  impression  that  the  cotton-covered 
bundle  contained  freshly  washed  clothes,  he  uncon- 
sciously set  certain  forces  in  operation. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Rebecca  saw  an 
inch  of  red  bunting  peeping  from  the  back  of  his 
wagon,  and  asked  the  pleasure  of  a  drive  with  him. 
She  was  no  daughter  of  the  regiment,  but  she  pro- 
posed to  follow  the  flag.  When  she  diplomatically 
requested  the  return  of  the  sacred  object  which 
was  to  be  the  glory  of  the  "raising  "  next  day,  and 
217 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

he  thus  discovered  his  mistake,  he  was  furious 
with  himself  for  having  slipped  into  a  disagreeable 
predicament  ;  and  later,  when  he  unexpectedly 
faced  a  detachment  of  Riverboro  society  at  the 
cross-roads,  and  met  not  only  their  wrath  and 
scorn,  but  the  reproachful,  disappointed  glance  of 
Rebecca's  eyes,  he  felt  degraded  as  never  before. 

The  night  at  the  Centre  Tavern  did  not  help 
matters,  nor  the  jolly  patriotic  meeting  of  the  three 
villages  at  the  flag-raising  next  morning.  He  would 
have  enjoyed  being  at  the  head  and  front  of  the 
festive  preparations,  but  as  he  had  cut  himself  off 
from  all  such  friendly  gatherings,  he  intended  at 
any  rate  to  sit  in  his  wagon  on  the  very  outskirts 
of  the  assembled  crowd  and  see  some  of  the  gayety ; 
for,  heaven  knows,  he  had  little  enough,  he  who 
loved  talk,  and  song,  and  story,  and  laughter,  and 
excitement. 

The  flag  was  raised,  the  crowd  cheered,  the  little 
girl  to  whom  he  had  lied,  the  girl  who  was  imper- 
sonating the  State  of  Maine,  was  on  the  platform 
"speaking  her  piece,"  and  he  could  just  distinguish 
some  of  the  words  she  was  saying  :  — 

"  For  it 's  your  star,  my  star,  all  the  stars  together, 
That  makes  our  country's  flag  so  proud 
To  float  in  the  bright  fall  weather." 

Then  suddenly  there  was  a  clarion  voice  cleaving 

the  air,  and  he  saw  a  tall  man  standing  in  the 

2X3 


THE  GREEN   ISLE 

centre  of  the  stage  and  heard  him  crying :  "  Three 
cheers  for  the  girl  that  saved  the  flag  from  the  hands 
of  the  enemy  !  " 

He  was  sore  and  bitter  enough  already ;  lonely, 
isolated  enough  ;  with  no  lot  nor  share  in  the  honest 
community  life ;  no  hand  to  shake,  no  neighbor's 
meal  to  share ;  and  this  unexpected  public  arraign- 
ment smote  him  between  the  eyes.  With  resent- 
ment newly  kindled,  pride  wounded,  vanity  bleeding, 
he  flung  a  curse  at  the  joyous  throng  and  drove 
toward  home,  the  home  where  he  would  find  his 
ragged  children  and  meet  the  timid  eyes  of  a 
woman  who  had  been  the  loyal  partner  of  his  pov- 
erty and  disgraces. 

It  is  probable  that  even  then  his  (extremely 
light)  hand  was  already  on  the  "  new  leaf."  The 
angels,  doubtless,  were  not  especially  proud  of  the 
matter  and  manner  of  his  reformation,  but  I  dare 
say  they  were  glad  to  count  him  theirs  on  any 
terms,  so  difficult  is  the  reformation  of  this  blind 
and  foolish  world  !  They  must  have  been  ;  for  they 
immediately  flung  into  his  very  lap  a  profitable, 
and  what  is  more  to  the  point,  an  interesting  and 
agreeable  situation  where  money  could  be  earned 
by  doing  the  very  things  his  nature  craved.  There 
were  feats  of  daring  to  be  performed  in  sight  of 
admiring  and  applauding  stable  boys ;  the  horses 
he  loved  were  his  companions  ;  he  was  obliged  to 
219 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"swap,"  for  Daly,  his  employer,  counted  on  him  to 
get  rid  of  all  undesirable  stock ;  power  and  respon- 
sibility of  a  sort  were  given  him  freely,  for  Daly 
was  no  'Puritan,  and  felt  himself  amply  capable  of 
managing  any  number  of  Simpsons  ;  so  here  were 
numberless  advantages  within  the  man's  grasp, 
and  wages  besides ! 

Abner  positively  felt  no  temptation  to  steal ;  his 
soul  expanded  with  pride,  and  the  admiration  and 
astonishment  with  which  he  regarded  his  virtuous 
present  was  only  equaled  by  the  disgust  with 
which  he  contemplated  his  past ;  not  so  much  a 
vicious  past,  in  his  own  generous  estimation  of  it, 
as  a  "thunderin'  foolish"  one. 

Mrs.  Simpson  took  the  same  view  of  Abner's 
new  leaf  as  the  angels.  She  was  thankful  for  even 
a  brief  season  of  honesty  coupled  with  the  Satur- 
day night  remittance ;  and  if  she  still  washed  and 
cried  and  cried  and  washed,  as  Clara  Belle  had 
always  seen  her,  it  was  either  because  of  some  hid- 
den sorrow,  or  because  her  poor  strength  seemed 
all  at  once  to  have  deserted  her. 

Just  when  employment  and  good  fortune  had 
come  to  the  step-children,  and  her  own  were 
better  fed  and  clothed  than  ever  before,  the  pain 
that  had  always  lurked,  constant  but  dull,  near  her 
tired  heart,  grew  fierce  and  triumphantly  strong ; 
clutching  her  in  its  talons,  biting,  gnawing,  worry- 
220 


THE  GREEN   ISLE 

ing,  leaving  her  each  week  with  slighter  powers  of 
resistance.  Still  hope  was  in  the  air  and  a  greater 
content  than  had  ever  been  hers  was  in  her  eyes ; 
a  content  that  came  near  to  happiness  when  the 
doctor  ordered  her  to  keep  her  bed  and  sent  for 
Clara  Belle.  She  could  not  wash  any  longer,  but 
there  was  the  ever  new  miracle  of  the  Saturday 
night  remittance  for  household  expenses. 

"  Is  your  pain  bad  to-day,  mother  ? "  asked  Clara 
Belle,  who,  only  lately  given  away,  was  merely  bor- 
rowed from  Mrs.  Fogg  for  what  was  thought  to  be 
a  brief  emergency. 

"  Well,  there,  I  can't  hardly  tell,  Clara  Belle," 
Mrs.  Simpson  replied,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  can't 
seem  to  remember  the  pain  these  days  without  it 's 
extra  bad.  The  neighbors  are  so  kind ;  Mrs.  Little 
has  sent  me  canned  mustard  greens,  and  Mrs.  Ben- 
son chocolate  ice-cream  and  mince  pie ;  there  's 
the  doctor's  drops  to  make  me  sleep,  and  these 
blankets  and  that  great  box  of  eatables  from  Mr. 
Ladd  ;  and  you  here  to  keep  me  comp'ny !  I  declare 
I  'm  kind  o'  dazed  with  comforts.  I  never  expected 
to  see  sherry  wine  in  this  house.  I  ain't  never 
drawed  the  cork;  it  does  me  good  enough  jest  to 
look  at  Mr.  Ladd's  bottle  settin'  on  the  mantel- 
piece with  the  fire  shinin'  on  the  brown  glass." 

Mr.  Simpson  had  come  to  see  his  wife  and  had 
met  the  doctor  just  as  he  was  leaving  the  house. 

221 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

"  She  looks  awful  bad  to  me.  Is  she  goin'  to  pull 
through  all  right,  same  as  the  last  time  ? "  he  asked 
the  doctor  nervously. 

"  She  's  going  to  pull  right  through  into  the  other 
world,"  the  doctor  answered  bluntly  ;  "  and  as  there 
don't  seem  to  be  anybody  else  to  take  the  bull  by 
the  horns,  I  'd  advise  you,  having  made  the  wo- 
man's life  about  as  hard  and  miserable  as  you  could, 
to  try  and  help  her  to  die  easy ! " 

Abner,  surprised  and  crushed  by  the  weight  of 
this  verbal  chastisement,  sat  down  on  the  doorstep, 
his  head  in  his  hands,  and  thought  a  while  sol- 
emnly. Thought  was  not  an  operation  he  was  wont 
to  indulge  in,  and  when  he  opened  the  gate  a  few 
minutes  later  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  barn 
for  his  horse,  he  looked  pale  and  unnerved.  It  is 
uncommonly  startling,  first  to  see  yourself  in  an- 
other man's  scornful  eyes,  and  then,  clearly,  in 
your  own. 

Two  days  later  he  came  again,  and  this  time  it 
was  decreed  that  he  should  find  Parson  Carll  tying 
his  piebald  mare  at  the  post. 

Clara  Belle's  quick  eye  had  observed  the  minis- 
ter as  he  alighted  from  his  buggy,  and,  warning  her 
mother,  she  hastily  smoothed  the  bedclothes,  ar- 
ranged the  medicine  bottles,  and  swept  the  hearth. 

"  Oh  !  don't  let  him  in  !  "•  wailed  Mrs.  Simpson, 
all  of  a  flutter  at  the  prospect  of  such  a  visitor. 
222 


THE  GREEN   ISLE 

"  Oh,  dear  !  they  must  think  over  to  the  village 
that  I  'm  dreadful  sick,  or  the  minister  would  n't 
never  think  of  callin'  !  Don't  let  him  in,  Clara 
Belle !  I  'm  afraid  he  will  say  hard  words  to  me, 
or  pray  to  me  ;  and  I  ain't  never  been  prayed  to 
since  I  was  a  child  !    Is  his  wife  with  him  ? " 

"  No ;  he 's  alone ;  but  father  's  just  drove  up 
and  is  hitching  at  the  shed  door." 

"  That 's  worse  than  all ! "  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
raised  herself  feebly  on  her  pillows  and  clasped  her 
hands  in  despair.  "  You  must  n't  let  them  two 
meet,  Clara  Belle,  and  you  must  send  Mr.  Carll 
away ;  your  father  would  n't  have  a  minister  in  the 
house,  nor  speak  to  one,  for  a  thousand  dollars !  " 

"  Be  quiet,  mother  !  Lie  down  !  It  '11  be  all 
right !  You  '11  only  fret  yourself  into  a  spell !  The 
minister  's  just  a  good  man;  he  won't  say  anything 
to  frighten  you.  Father  's  talking  with  him  real 
pleasant,  and  pointing  the  way  to  the  front  door." 

The  parson  knocked  and  was  admitted  by  the 
excited  Clara  Belle,  who  ushered  him  tremblingly 
into  the  sickroom,  and  then  betook  herself  to  the 
kitchen  with  the  children,  as  he  gently  requested  her. 

Abner  Simpson,  left  alone  in  the  shed,  fumbled 
in  his  vest  pocket  and  took  out  an  envelope  which 
held  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  tiny  packet  wrapped  in 
tissue  paper.  The  letter  had  been  read  once  before 
and  ran  as  follows  :  — 

223 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

Dear  Mr.  Simpson: 

This  is  a  secret  letter.  I  heard  that  the  Acreville 
people  were  n't  nice  to  Mrs.  Simpson  because  she 
did  n't  have  any  wedding-ring  like  all  the  others. 

I  know  you  've  always  been  poor,  dear  Mr.  Simp- 
son, and  troubled  with  a  large  family  like  ours  at 
the  farm ;  but  you  really  ought  to  have  given  Mrs. 
Simpson  a  ring  when  you  were  married  to  her,  right 
at  the  very  first ;  for  then  it  would  have  been  over 
and  done  with,  as  they  are  solid  gold  and  last  for- 
ever. And  probably  she  wouldn't  feel  like  asking 
you  for  one,  because  ladies  are  just  like  girls,  only 
grown  up,  and  I  know  I  'd  be  ashamed  to  beg  for 
jewelry  when  just  board  and  clothes  cost  so  much. 
So  I  send  you  a  nice,  new  wedding-ring  to  save 
your  buying,  thinking  you  might  get  Mrs.  Simpson 
a  bracelet  or  eardrops  for  Christmas.  It  did  not 
cost  me  anything,  as  it  was  a  secret  present  from 
a  friend. 

I  hear  Mrs.  Simpson  is  sick,  and  it  would  be  a 
great  comfort  to  her  while  she  is  in  bed  and  has  so 
much  time  to  look  at  it.  When  I  had  the  measles 
Emma  Jane  Perkins  lent  me  her  mother's  garnet 
ring,  and  it  helped  me  very  much  to  put  my  wasted 
hand  outside  the  bedclothes  and  see  the  ring  spar- 
kling. 

Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,  dear  Mr.  Simpson, 
because  I  like  you  so  much  and  am  so  glad  you  are 
224 


THE  GREEN   ISLE 

happy  with  the  horses  and  colts ;  and  I  believe  now 
perhaps  you  did  think  the  flag  was  a  bundle  of 
washing  when  you  took  it  that  day ;  so  no  more 
from  your 

Trusted  friend, 

Rebecca  Rowena  Randall. 

Simpson  tore  the  letter  slowly  and  quietly  into 
fragments  and  scattered  the  bits  on  the  woodpile, 
took  off  his  hat,  and  smoothed  his  hair ;  pulled  his 
mustaches  thoughtfully,  straightened  his  shoulders, 
and  then,  holding  the  tiny  packet  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  he  went  round  to  the  front  door,  and  having 
entered  the  house  stood  outside  the  sickroom  for  an 
instant,  turned  the  knob  and  walked  softly  in. 

Then  at  last  the  angels  might  have  enjoyed  a 
moment  of  unmixed  joy,  for  in  that  brief  walk  from 
shed  to  house  Abner  Simpson's  conscience  waked 
to  life  and  attained  sufficient  strength  to  prick  and 
sting,  to  provoke  remorse,  to  incite  penitence,  to 
do  all  sorts  of  divine  and  beautiful  things  it  was 
meant  for,  but  had  never  been  allowed  to  do. 

Clara  Belle  went  about  the  kitchen  quietly,  mak- 
ing preparations  for  the  children's  supper.  She  had 
left  River boro  in  haste,  as  the  change  for  the 
worse  in  Mrs.  Simpson  had  been  very  sudden, 
but  since  she  had  come  she  had  thought  more 
than  once  of  the  wedding-ring.  She  had  wondered 
225 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

whether  Mr.  Ladd  had  bought  it  for  Rebecca,  and 
whether  Rebecca  would  find  means  to  send  it  to 
Acreville;  but  her  cares  had  been  so  many  and 
varied  that  the  subject  had  now  finally  retired  to 
the  background  of  her  mind. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  crept  on  and  she  kept 
hushing  the  strident  tones  of  Elijah  and  Elisha, 
opening  and  shutting  the  oven  door  to  look  at  the 
corn  bread,  advising  Susan  as  to  her  dishes,  and 
marveling  that  the  minister  stayed  so  long. 

At  last  she  heard  a  door  open  and  close,  and  saw 
the  old  parson  come  out,  wiping  his  spectacles, 
and  step  into  the  buggy  for  his  drive  to  the  village. 

Then  there  was  another  period  of  suspense, 
during  which  the  house  was  as  silent  as  the  grave, 
and  presently  her  father  came  into  the  kitchen, 
greeted  the  twins  and  Susan,  and  said  to  Clara 
Belle  :  "  Don't  go  in  there  yet ! "  jerking  his  thumb 
towards  Mrs.  Simpson's  room  ;  "  she 's  all  beat  out 
and  she's  just  droppin'  off  to  sleep.  I'll  send 
some  groceries  up  from  the  store  as  I  go  along. 
Is  the  doctor  makin'  a  second  call  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  '11  be  here  pretty  soon,  now,"  Clara 
Belie  answered,  looking  at  the  clock. 

"  All  right.    I  '11  be  here  again  to-morrow,  soon 
as  it 's  light,  and  if  she  ain't  picked  up  any  I  '11 
send  word  back  to  Daly,  and  stop  here  with  you 
for  a  spell  till  she 's  better." 
226 


THE   GREEN   ISLE 

It  was  true ;  Mrs.  Simpson  was  "  all  beat  out." 
It  had  been  a  time  of  excitement  and  stress,  and 
the  poor,  fluttered  creature  was  dropping  off  into 
the  strangest  sleep  —  a  sleep  made  up  of  waking 
dreams.  The  pain,  that  had  encompassed  her  heart 
like  a  band  of  steel,  lessened  its  cruel  pressure,  and 
finally  left  her  so  completely  that  she  seemed  to 
see  it  floating  above  her  head ;  only  that  it  looked 
no  longer  like  a  band  of  steel,  but  a  golden  circle. 

The  frail  bark  in  which  she  had  sailed  her  life- 
voyage  had  been  rocking  on  a  rough  and  tossing 
ocean,  and  now  it  floated,  floated  slowly  into 
smoother  waters. 

As  long  as  she  could  remember,  her  boat  had 
been  flung  about  in  storm  and  tempest,  lashed  by 
angry  winds,  borne  against  rocks,  beaten,  torn, 
buffeted.  Now  the  waves  had  subsided  ;  the  sky 
was  clear  ;  the  sea  was  warm  and  tranquil ;  the 
sunshine  dried  the  tattered  sails ;  the  air  was  soft 
and  balmy. 

And  now,  for  sleep  plays  strange  tricks,  the 
bark  disappeared  from  the  dream,  and  it  was  she, 
herself,  who  was  floating,  floating  farther  and 
farther  away  ;  whither  she  neither  knew  nor  cared ; 
it  was  enough  to  be  at  rest,  lulled  by  the  lapping 
of  the  cool  waves. 

Then  there  appeared  a  green  isle  rising  from  the 
sea  ;  an  isle  so  radiant  and  fairy-like  that  her  faro 
227 


NEW   CHRONICLES  OF   REBECCA 

.ished  eyes  could  hardly  believe  its  reality ;  but  it 
was  real,  for  she  sailed  nearer  and  nearer  to  its 
shores,  and  at  last  her  feet  skimmed  the  shining 
sands  and  she  floated  through  the  air  as  disem- 
bodied spirits  float,  till  she  sank  softly  at  the  foot 
of  a  spreading  tree. 

Then  she  saw  that  the  green  isle  was  a  flowering 
isle.  Every  shrub  and  bush  was  blooming ;  the  trees 
were  hung  with  rosy  garlands,  and  even  the  earth 
was  carpeted  with  tiny  flowers.  The  rare  fragrances, 
the  bird  songs,  soft  and  musical,  the  ravishment  of 
color,  all  bore  down  upon  her  swimming  senses  at 
once,  taking  them  captive  so  completely  that  she 
remembered  no  past,  was  conscious  of  no  present, 
looked  forward  to  no  future.  She  seemed  to  leave 
the  body  and  the  sad,  heavy  things  of  the  body. 
The  humming  in  her  ears  ceased,  the  light  faded, 
the  birds'  songs  grew  fainter  and  more  distant,  the 
golden  circle  of  pain  receded  farther  and  farther 
until  it  was  lost  to  view ;  even  the  flowering  island 
gently  drifted  away,  and  all  was  peace  and  silence. 

It  was  time  for  the  doctor  now,  and  Clara  Belle, 
too  anxious  to  wait  longer,  softly  turned  the  knob 
of  her  mother's  door  and  entered  the  room.  The 
glow  of  the  open  fire  illumined  the  darkest  side  of 
the  poor  chamber.  There  were  no  trees  near  the 
house,  and  a  full  November  moon  streamed  in  at 
the  unblinded,  uncurtained  windows,  lighting  up 
228 


THE   GREEN   ISLE 

the  bare  interior  —  the  unpainted  floor,  the  gray 
plastered  walls,  and  the  white  counterpane. 

Her  mother  lay  quite  still,  her  head  turned  and 
drooping  a  little  on  the  pillow.  Her  left  hand  was 
folded  softly  up  against  her  breast,  the  fingers  of 
the  right  partly  covering  it,  as  if  protecting  some- 
thing precious. 

Was  it  the  moonlight  that  made  the  patient  brow 
so  white,  and  where  were  the  lines  of  anxiety  and 
pain  ?  The  face  of  the  mother  who  had  washed  and 
cried  and  cried  and  washed  was  as  radiant  as  if  the 
closed  eye  were  beholding  heavenly  visions. 

"  Something  must  have  cured  her  !  "  thought 
Clara  Belle,  awed  and  almost  frightened  by  the 
whiteness  and  the  silence. 

She  tiptoed  across  the  floor  to  look  more  closely 
at  the  still,  smiling  shape,  and  bending  over  it  saw, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  caressing  right  hand,  a 
narrow  gold  band  gleaming  on  the  work-stained 
finger. 

"  Oh,  the  ring  came,  after  all ! "  she  said  in  a 
glad  whisper,  "  and  perhaps  it  was  that  that  made 
her  better !  " 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  mother's  gently.  A 
terrified  shiver,  a  warning  shudder,  shook  the  girl 
from  head  to  foot  at  the  chilling  touch.  A  dread 
presence  she  had  never  met  before  suddenly  took 
shape.  It  filled  the  room ;  stifled  the  cry  on  her 
229 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

lips ;  froze  her  steps  to  the  floor  ;  stopped  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart. 

Just  then  the  door  opened. 

"  Oh,  doctor  !  come  quick  !  "  she  sobbed,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hand  for  help,  and  then  covering  her 
eyes.  "  Come  close  !  Look  at  mother  !  Is  she  bet- 
ter —  or  is  she  dead  ?  " 

The  doctor  put  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
shrinking  child,  and  touched  the  woman  with  the 
other. 

"  She  is  better ! "  he  said  gently,  "  and  she  is 
dead." 


Tenth  Chronicle 
REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

REBECCA  was  sitting  by  the  window  in  her 
room  at  the  Wareham  Female  Seminary. 
She  was  alone,  as  her  roommate,  Emma 
Jane  Perkins,  was  reciting  Latin  down  below  in 
some  academic  vault  of  the  old  brick  building. 

A  new  and  most  ardent  passion  for  the  classics 
had  been  born  in  Emma  Jane's  hitherto  unfertile 
brain,  for  Abijah  Flagg,  who  was  carrying  off  all 
the  prizes  at  Limerick  Academy,  had  written  her 
a  letter  in  Latin,  a  letter  which  she  had  been  unable 
to  translate  for  herself,  even  with  the  aid  of  a  dic- 
tionary, and  which  she  had  been  apparently  unwill- 
ing that  Rebecca,  her  bosom  friend,  confidant,  and 
roommate,  should  render  into  English. 

An  old-fashioned  Female  Seminary,  with  its  allot- 
ment of  one  medium-sized  room  to  two  medium- 
sized  young  females,  gave  small  opportunities 
for  privacy  by  night  or  day,  for  neither  the  double 
washstand,  nor  the  thus  far  unimagined  bathroom, 
nor  even  indeed  the  humble  and  serviceable 
screen,  had  been  realized,  in  these  dark  ages 
of  which  I  write.  Accordingly,  like  the  irrational 
231 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

ostrich,  which  defends  itself  by  the  simple  process 
of  not  looking  at  its  pursuers,  Emma  Jane  had  kept 
her  Latin  letter  in  her  closed  hand,  in  her  pocket, 
or  in  her  open  book,  flattering  herself  that  no  one 
had  noticed  her  pleased  bewilderment  at  its  only 
half-imagined  contents. 

All  the  fairies  were  not  present  at  Rebecca's 
cradle.  A  goodly  number  of  them  telegraphed  that 
they  were  previously  engaged  or  unavoidably  ab- 
sent from  town.  The  village  of  Temperance, 
Maine,  where  Rebecca  first  saw  the  light,  was 
hardly  a  place  on  its  own  merits  to  attract  large 
throngs  of  fairies.  But  one  dear  old  personage  who 
keeps  her  pocket  full  of  Merry  Leaves  from  the 
Laughing  Tree,  took  a  fancy  to  come  to  the  little 
birthday  party  ;  and  seeing  so  few  of  her  sister- 
fairies  present,  she  dowered  the  sleeping  baby  more 
richly  than  was  her  wont,  because  of  its  apparent 
lack  of  wealth  in  other  directions.  So  the  child  grew, 
and  the  Merry  Leaves  from  the  Laughing  Tree 
rustled  where  they  hung  from  the  hood  of  her 
cradle,  and,  being  fairy  leaves,  when  the  cradle  was 
given  up  they  festooned  themselves  on  the  cribside, 
and  later  on  blew  themselves  up  to  the  ceilings  at 
Sunnybrook  Farm  and  dangled  there,  making  fun 
for  everybody.  They  never  withered,  even  at  the 
brick  house  in  Riverboro,  where  the  air  was  par- 
ticularly inimical  to  fairies,  for  Miss  Miranda  Saw- 
232 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

yer  would  have  scared  any  ordinary  elf  out  of  her 
seventeen  senses.  They  followed  Rebecca  to  Ware- 
ham,  and  during  Abijah  Flagg's  Latin  correspond- 
ence with  Emma  Jane  they  fluttered  about  that 
young  person's  head  in  such  a  manner  that  Re- 
becca was  almost  afraid  that  she  would  discover 
them  herself,  although  this  is  something,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  that  never  does  happen. 

A  week  had  gone  by  since  the  Latin  missive  had 
been  taken  from  the  post-office  by  Emma  Jane,  and 
now,  by  means  of  much  midnight  oil-burning,  by 
much  cautious  questioning  of  Miss  Maxwell,  by 
such  scrutiny  of  the  moods  and  tenses  of  Latin 
verbs  as  wellnigh  destroyed  her  brain  tissue,  she 
had  mastered  its  romantic  message.  If  it  was  con- 
ventional in  style,  Emma  Jane  never  suspected  it. 
If  some  of  the  similes  seemed  to  have  been  culled 
from  the  Latin  poets,  and  some  of  the  phrases 
built  up  from  Latin  exercises,  Emma  Jane  was 
neither  scholar  nor  critic ;  the  similes,  the  phrases, 
the  sentiments,  when  finally  translated  and  writ- 
ten down  in  black-and-white  English,  made,  in  her 
opinion,  the  most  convincing  and  heart-melting 
document  ever  sent  through  the  mails :  — 

Mea  cara  Emma  : 

Cur  audeo  scribere  ad  te  epistulam  ?    Es  mihi 
dea !   Semper  es  in  mea  anima.   Iterum  et  iterum 
233 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

es  cum  me  in  somnis.  Saepe  video  tuas  capillos 
auri,  tuos  pulchros  oculos  similes  caelo,  tuas  genas, 
quasi  rubentes  rosas  in  nive.  Tua  vox  est  dulcior 
quam  cantus  avium  aut  murmur  rivuli  in  montibus. 

Cur  sum  ego  tarn  miser  et  pauper  et  indignus,  et 
tu  tarn  dulcis  et  bona  et  nobilis  ? 

Si  cogitabis  de  me  ero  beatus.  Tu  es  sola  puella 
quam  amo,  et  semper  eris.  Alias  puellas  non  amavi. 
Forte  olim  amabis  me,  sed  sum  indignus.  Sine  te 
sum  miser,  cum  tu  es  prope  mea  vita  omnis  est 
gaudium. 

Vale,  carissima,  carissima  puella ! 

De  tuo  fideli  servo 

A.  R 
My  dear  Emma: 

Why  dare  I  write  to  you  a  letter  ?  You  are  to  me 
a  goddess !  Always  you  are  in  my  heart.  Again 
and  again  you  are  with  me  in  dreams.  Often  I  see 
your  locks  of  gold,  your  beautiful  eyes  like  the  sky, 
your  cheeks,  as  red  roses  in  snow.  Your  voice  is 
sweeter  than  the  singing  of  birds  or  the  murmur 
of  the  stream  in  the  mountains. 

Why  am  I  so  wretched  and  poor  and  unworthy, 
and  you  so  sweet  and  good  and  noble  ? 

If  you  will  think  of  me  I  shall  be  happy.    You 

are  the  only  girl  that  I  love  and  always  will  be. 

Other  girls  I  have  not  loved.    Perhaps   sometime 

you  will  love  me,  but  I  am  unworthy.    Without 

234 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

you  I  am  wretched,  when  you  are  near  my  life  is 
all  joy. 

Farewell,  dearest,  dearest  girl ! 

From  your  faithful  slave 

A.  F. 

Emma  Jane  knew  the  letter  by  heart  in  English. 
She  even  knew  it  in  Latin,  only  a  few  days  before 
a  dead  language  to  her,  but  now  one  filled  with 
life  and  meaning.  From  beginning  to  end  the 
epistle  had  the  effect  upon  her  as  of  an  intoxicat- 
ing elixir.  Often,  at  morning  prayers,  or  while  eat- 
ing her  rice  pudding  at  the  noon  dinner,  or  when 
sinking  off  to  sleep  at  night,  she  heard  a  voice 
murmuring  in  her  ear,  "  Vale,  carissima,  carissima, 
puella ! "  As  to  the  effect  on  her  modest,  coun- 
trified little  heart  of  the  phrases  in  which  Abijah 
stated  she  was  a  goddess  and  he  her  faithful  slave, 
that  quite  baffles  description  ;  for  it  lifted  her 
bodily  out  of  the  scenes  in  which  she  moved,  into 
a  new,  rosy,  ethereal  atmosphere  in  which  even 
Rebecca  had  no  place. 

Rebecca  did  not  know  this,  fortunately ;  she 
only  suspected,  and  waited  for  the  day  when 
Emma  Jane  would  pour  out  her  confidences,  as 
she  always  did,  and  always  would  until  the  end 
of  time.  At  the  present  moment  she  was  busily 
employed  in  thinking  about  her  own  affairs.  A 
235 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

shabby  composition-book  with  mottled  board  cov- 
ers lay  open  on  the  table  before  her,  and  some- 
times she  wrote  in  it  with  feverish  haste  and  ab- 
sorption, and  sometimes  she  rested  her  chin  in  the 
cup  of  her  palm,  and  with  the  pencil  poised  in  the 
other  hand  looked  dreamily  out  on  the  village,  its 
huddle  of  roofs  and  steeples  all  blurred  into  posi- 
tive beauty  by  the  fast-falling  snowflakes. 

It  was  the  middle  of  December  and  the  friendly 
sky  was  softly  dropping  a  great  white  mantle  of 
peace  and  good-will  over  the  little  town,  making 
all  ready  within  and  without  for  the  Feast  o'  the 
Babe. 

The  main  street,  that  in  summer  was  made  dig- 
nified by  its  splendid  avenue  of  shade  trees,  now 
ran  quiet  and  white  between  rows  of  stalwart 
trunks,  whose  leafless  branches  were  all  hanging 
heavy  under  their  dazzling  burden. 

The  path  leading  straight  up  the  hill  to  the 
Academy  was  broken  only  by  the  feet  of  the  hurry- 
ing, breathless  boys  and  girls  who  ran  up  and 
down,  carrying  piles  of  books  under  their  arms ; 
books  which  they  remembered  so  long  as  they 
were  within  the  four  walls  of  the  recitation  room, 
and  which  they  eagerly  forgot  as  soon  as  they  met 
one  another  in  the  living,  laughing  world,  going 
up  and  down  the  hill. 

" It's  very  becoming  to  the  universe,  snow  is ! " 
236 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

thought  Rebecca,  looking  out  of  the  window  dream- 
ily. "  Really  there 's  little  to  choose  between  the 
world  and  heaven  when  a  snowstorm  is  going  on. 
I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  look  at  it  every  minute.  I 
wish  I  could  get  over  being  greedy,  but  it  still 
seems  to  me  at  sixteen  as  if  there  were  n't  waking 
hours  enough  in  the  day,  and  as  if  somehow  I  were 
pressed  for  time  and  continually  losing  something. 
How  well  I  remember  mother's  story  about  me 
when  I  was  four.  It  was  at  early  breakfast  on  the 
farm,  but  I  called  all  meals  'dinner'  then,  and 
when  I  had  finished  I  folded  up  my  bib  and  sighed : 
'  Oh,  dear !  Only  two  more  dinners,  play  a  while 
and  go  to  bed ! '  This  was  at  six  in  the  morning 
—  lampligh:  in  the  kitchen,  snowlight  outside! 

Powdery,  powdery,  powdery  snow, 
Making  things  lovely  wherever  you  go  1 
Merciful,  merciful,  merciful  snow, 
Masking  the  ugliness  hidden  below. 

Herbert  made  me  promise  to  do  a  poem  for  the  Jan- 
uary '  Pilot,'  but  I  must  n't  take  the  snow  as  a  sub- 
ject ;  there  has  been  too  great  competition  among 
the  older  poets  !  "  And  with  that  she  turned  in  her 
chair  and  began  writing  again  in  the  shabby  book, 
which  was  already  three  quarters  filled  with  childish 
scribblings,  sometimes  in  pencil,  and  sometimes  in 
violet  ink  with  carefully  shaded  capital  letters. 

237 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Squire  Bean  has  had  a  sharp  attack  of  rheuma- 
tism and  Abijah  Flagg  came  back  from  Limerick 
for  a  few  days  to  nurse  him.  One  morning  the 
Burnham  sisters  from  North  Riverboro  came  over 
to  spend  the  day  with  Aunt  Miranda,  and  Abijah 
went  down  to  put  up  their  horse.  ("'Commodatin' 
'Bijah  "  was  his  pet  name  when  we  were  all  young.) 
He  scaled  the  ladder  to  the  barn  chamber  —  the 
dear  old  ladder  that  used  to  be  my  safety  valve !  — 
and  pitched  down  the  last  forkful  of  grandfather's 
hay  that  will  ever  be  eaten  by  any  visiting  horse. 
They  will  be  delighted  to  hear  that  it  is  all  gone; 
they  have  grumbled  at  it  for  years  and  years. 

What  should  Abijah  find  at  the  bottom  of  the 
heap  but  my  Thought  Book,  hidden  there  two  or 
three  years  ago  and  forgotten  ! 

When  I  think  of  what  it  was  to  me,  the  place  it 
filled  in  my  life,  the  affection  I  lavished  on  it,  I 
wonder  that  I  could  forget  it,  even  in  all  the  ex- 
citement of  coming  to  Wareham  to  school.  And 
that  gives  me  "  an  uncommon  thought "  as  I  used 
to  say !  It  is  this  :  that  when  we  finish  building  an 
air  castle  we  seldom  live  in  it  after  all ;  we  some- 
times even  forget  that  we  ever  longed  to  !  Perhaps 
we  have  gone  so  far  as  to  begin  another  castle  on 
a  higher  hilltop,  and  this  is  so  beautiful,  —  espe- 
cially while  we  are  building,  and  before  we  live  in 
it !  —  that  the  first  one  has  quite  vanished  from 
238 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

sight  and  mind,  like  the  outgrown  shell  of  the  nau- 
tilus that  he  casts  off  on  the  shore  and  never  looks 
at  again.  (At  least  I  suppose  he  does  n't ;  but  per- 
haps he  takes  one  backward  glance,  half-smiling, 
half-serious,  just  as  I  am  doing  at  my  old  Thought 
Book,  and  says,  "  Was  that  my  shell !  Goodness 
gracious  !  how  did  I  ever  squeeze  myself  into  it !  ") 
That  bit  about  the  nautilus  sounds  like  an  ex- 
tract from  a  school  theme,  or  a  " Pilot"  editorial,  or 
a  fragment  of  one  of  dear  Miss  Maxwell's  lectures, 
—  but  I  think  girls  of  sixteen  are  principally  imita- 
tions of  the  people  and  things  they  love  and  admire ; 
and  between  editing  the  "  Pilot,"  writing  out  Virgil 
translations,  searching  for  composition  subjects,  and 
studying  rhetorical  models,  there  is  very  little  of  the 
original  Rebecca  Rowena  about  me  at  the  present 
moment;  I  am  just  a  member  of  the  graduating 
class  in  good  and  regular  standing.  We  do  our 
hair  alike,  dress  alike  as  much  as  possible,  eat  and 
drink  alike,  talk  alike,  —  I  am  not  even  sure  that 
we  do  not  think  alike  :  and  what  will  become  of  the 
poor  world  when  we  are  all  let  loose  upon  it  on 
the  same  day  of  June  ?  Will  life,  real  life,  bring  our 
true  selves  back  to  us  ?  Will  love  and  duty  and 
sorrow  and  trouble  and  work  finally  wear  off  the 
"  school  stamp  "  that  has  been  pressed  upon  all  of 
us  until  we  look  like  rows  of  shining  copper  cents 
fresh  from  the  mint  ? 

239 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

Yet  there  must  be  a  little  difference  between  us 
somewhere,  or  why  does  Abijah  Flagg  write  Latin 
letters  to  Emma  Jane,  instead  of  to  me?  There 
is  one  example  on  the  other  side  of  the  argument, 
—  Abijah  Flagg.  He  stands  out  from  all  the  rest 
of  the  boys  like  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar  in  the  geo- 
graphy pictures.  Is  it  because  he  never  went  to 
school  until  he  was  sixteen  ?  He  almost  died  of 
longing  to  go,  and  the  longing  seemed  to  teach  him 
more  than  going.  He  knew  his  letters,  and  could 
read  simple  things,  but  it  was  I  who  taught  him  what 
books  really  meant  when  I  was  eleven  and  he  thir- 
teen. We  studied  while  he  was  husking  corn  or 
cutting  potatoes  for  seed,  or  shelling  beans  in  the 
Squire's  barn.  His  beloved  Emma  Jane  did  n't  teach 
him  ;  her  father  would  not  have  let  her  be  friends 
with  a  chore-boy  !  It  was  I  who  found  him  after  milk- 
ing-time,  summer  nights,  suffering,  yes  dying,  of 
Least  Common  Multiple  and  Greatest  Common  Di- 
visor ;  I  who  struck  the  shackles  from  the  slave  and 
told  him  to  skip  it  all  and  go  on  to  something  easier, 
like  Fractions,  Percentage,  and  Compound  Inter- 
est, as  I  did  myself.  Oh  !  how  he  used  to  smell  of 
the  cows  when  I  was  correcting  his  sums  on  warm 
evenings,  but  I  don't  regret  it,  for  he  is  now  the 
joy  of  Limerick  and  the  pride  of  Riverboro,  and  I 
suppose  has  forgotten  the  proper  side  on  which  to 
approach  a  cow  if  you  wish  to  milk  her.  This  now 
240 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

unserviceable  knowledge  is  neatly  inclosed  in  the 
outgrown  shell  he  threw  off  two  or  three  years  ago. 
His  gratitude  to  me  knows  no  bounds,  but  —  he 
writes  Latin  letters  to  Emma  Jane  !  But  as  Mr. 
Perkins  said  about  drowning  the  kittens  (I  now 
quote  from  myself  at  thirteen),  "  It  is  the  way  of 
the  world  and  how  things  have  to  be  ! " 

Well,  I  have  read  the  Thought  Book  all  through, 
and  when  I  want  to  make  Mr.  Aladdin  laugh,  I  shall 
show  him  my  composition  on  the  relative  values  of 
punishment  and  reward  as  builders  of  character. 

I  am  not  at  all  the  same  Rebecca  to-day  at  six- 
teen that  I  was  then,  at  twelve  and  thirteen.  I 
hope,  in  getting  rid  of  my  failings,  that  I  have  n't 
scrubbed  and  rubbed  so  hard  that  I  have  taken  the 
gloss  off  the  poor  little  virtues  that  lay  just  along- 
side of  the  faults  ;  for  as  I  read  the  foolish  doggerel 
and  the  funny,  funny  "  Remerniscences,"  I  see  on 
the  whole  a  nice,  well-meaning,  trusting,  loving 
heedless  little  creature,  that  after  all  I  'd  rather 
build  on  than  outgrow  altogether,  because  she  is 
Me ;  the  Me  that  was  made  and  born  just  a  little 
different  from  all  the  rest  of  the  babies  in  my  birth- 
day year. 

One  thing  is  alike  in  the  child  and  the  girl.    They 

both  love  to  set  thoughts  down  in  black  and  white ; 

to  see  how  they  look,  how  they  sound,  and  how 

they  make   one  feel  when  one  reads   them   over. 

241 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

They  both  love  the  sound  of  beautiful  sentences 
and  the  tinkle  of  rhyming  words,  and  in  fact,  of  the 
three  great  R's  of  life,  they  adore  Reading  and 
'Riting,  as  much  as  they  abhor  'Rithmetic. 

The  little  girl  in  the  old  book  is  always  thinking 
of  what  she  is  "going  to  be." 

Uncle  Jerry  Cobb  spoiled  me  a  good  deal  in  this 
direction.  I  remember  he  said  to  everybody  when 
I  wrote  my  verses  for  the  flag-raising  :  "  Nary  rung 
on  the  ladder  o'  fame  but  that  child  '11  climb  if  you 
give  her  time! "  —  poor  Uncle  Jerry !  he  will  be  so 
disappointed  in  me  as  time  goes  on.  And  still  he 
would  think  I  have  already  climbed  two  rungs  on 
the  ladder,  although  it  is  only  a  little  Wareham 
ladder,  for  I  am  one  of  the  "  Pilot  "  editors,  the  first 
"girl  editor"  — and  I  have  taken  a  fifty  dollar  prize 
in  composition  and  paid  off  the  interest  on  a  twelve 
hundred  dollar  mortgage  with  it. 

"  High  is  the  rank  we  now  possess, 
But  higher  we  shall  rise ; 
Though  what  we  shall  hereafter  be 
Is  hid  from  mortal  eyes." 

This  hymn  was  sung  in  meeting  the  Sunday 
after  my  election,  and  Mr.  Aladdin  was  there  that 
day  and  looked  across  the  aisle  and  smiled  at  me. 
Then  he  sent  me  a  sheet  of  paper  from  Boston  the 
next  morning  with  just  one  verse  in  the  middle 
of  it. 

242 


REBECCA'S  REMINISCENCES 

"She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed; 
And  ev'n  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 
Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded, 
In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did." 

Miss  Maxwell  says  it  is  Byron,  and  I  wish  I  had 
thought  of  the  last  rhyme  before  Byron  did;  my 
rhymes  are  always  so  common. 

I  am  too  busy  doing,  nowadays,  to  give  very  much 
thought  to  being.  Mr.  Aladdin  was  teasing  me  one 
day  about  what  he  calls  my  "cast-off  careers." 

"  What  makes  you  aim  at  any  mark  in  particular, 
Rebecca  ? "  he  asked,  looking  at  Miss  Maxwell  and 
laughing.  "Women  never  hit  what  they  aim  at, 
anyway ;  but  if  they  shut  their  eyes  and  shoot  in 
the  air  they  generally  find  themselves  in  the  bull's 
eye." 

I  think  one  reason  that  I  have  always  dreamed 
of  what  I  should  be,  when  I  grew  up,  was,  that 
even  before  father  died  mother  worried  about  the 
mortgage  on  the  farm,  and  what  would  become  of 
us  if  it  were  foreclosed. 

It  was  hard  on  children  to  be  brought  up  on  a 
mortgage  that  way,  but  oh  !  it  was  harder  still  on 
poor  dear  mother,  who  had  seven  of  us  then  to 
think  of,  and  still  has  three  at  home  to  feed  and 
clothe  out  of  the  farm. 

Aunt  Jane  says  I  am  young  for  my  age,  Aunt 
Miranda  is  afraid  that  I  will  never  really  "  grow 
243 


NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA 

up,"  Mr.  Aladdin  says  that  I  don't  know  the  world 
any  better  than  the  pearl  inside  of  the  oyster. 
They  none  of  them  know  the  old,  old  thoughts  I 
have,  some  of  them  going  back  years  and  years ; 
for  they  are  never  ones  that  I  can  speak  about. 

I  remember  how  we  children  used  to  admire 
father,  he  was  so  handsome  and  graceful  and  amus- 
ing, never  cross  like  mother,  or  too  busy  to  play 
with  us.  He  never  did  any  work  at  home  because 
he  had  to  keep  his  hands  nice  for  playing  the 
church  melodeon,  or  the  violin  or  piano  for  dances. 

Mother  used  to  say:  "Hannah  and  Rebecca, 
you  must  hull  the  strawberries,  your  father  cannot 
help."  "John,  you  must  milk  next  year  for  I 
have  n't  the  time  and  it  would  spoil  your  father's 
hands." 

All  the  other  men  in  Temperance  village  wore 
calico,  or  flannel  shirts,  except  on  Sundays,  but 
father  never  wore  any  but  white  ones  with  starched 
bosoms.  He  was  very  particular  about  them  and 
mother  used  to  stitch  and  stitch  on  the  pleats,  and 
press  and  press  the  bosoms  and  collar  and  cuffs, 
sometimes  late  at  night. 

Then  she  was  tired  and  thin  and  gray,  with  no 
time  to  sew  on  new  dresses  for  herself,  and  no 
time  to  wear  them,  because  she  was  always  taking 
care  of  the  babies  ;  and  father  was  happy  and  well 
and  handsome.  But  we  children  never  thought 
244 


REBECCA'S  REMINISCENCES 

much  about  it  until  once,  after  father  had  mort- 
gaged the  farm,  there  was  going  to  be  a  sociable 
in  Temperance  village.  Mother  could  not  go  as 
Jenny  had  whooping-cough  and  Mark  had  just 
broken  his  arm,  and  when  she  was  tying  father's 
necktie,  the  last  thing  before  he  started,  he  said : 
"I  wish,  Aurelia,  that  you  cared  a  little  about  your 
appearance  and  your  dress  :  it  goes  a  long  way  with 
a  man  like  me." 

Mother  had  finished  the  tie,  and  her  hands 
dropped  suddenly.  I  looked  at  her  eyes  and  mouth 
while  she  looked  at  father  and  in  a  minute  I  was 
ever  so  old,  with  a  grown-up  ache  in  my  heart.  It 
has  always  stayed  there,  although  I  admired  my 
handsome  father  and  was  proud  of  him  because  he 
was  so  talented  ;  but  now  that  I  am  older  and  have 
thought  about  things,  my  love  for  mother  is  differ- 
ent from  what  it  used  to  be.  Father  was  always 
the  favorite  when  we  were  little,  he  was  so  inter- 
esting, and  I  wonder  sometimes  if  we  don't  remem- 
ber interesting  people  longer  and  better  than  we 
do  those  who  are  just  good  and  patient.  If  so  it 
seems  very  cruel. 

As  I  look  back  I  see  that  Miss  Ross,  the  artist 
who  brought  me  my  pink  parasol  from  Paris,  sowed 
the  first  seeds  in  me  of  ambition  to  do  something 
special.  Her  life  seemed  so  beautiful  and  so  easy 
to  a  child.  I  had  not  been  to  school  then,  or  read 
245 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

George  Macdonald,  so  I  did  not  know  that  "  Ease 
is  the  lovely  result  of  forgotten  toil." 

Miss  Ross  sat  out  of  doors  and  painted  lovely 
things,  and  everybody  said  how  wonderful  they 
were,  and  bought  them  straight  away ;  and  she 
took  care  of  a  blind  father  and  two  brothers,  and 
traveled  wherever  she  wished.  It  comes  back  to 
me  now,  that  summer  when  I  was  ten  and  Miss 
Ross  painted  me  sitting  by  the  mill-wheel  while 
she  talked  to  me  of  foreign  countries ! 

The  other  day  Miss  Maxwell  read  something 
from  Browning's  poems  to  the  girls  of  her  literature 
class.  It  was  about  David  the  shepherd  boy  who 
used  to  lie  in  his  hollow  watching  one  eagle  "  wheel- 
ing slow  as  in  sleep."  He  used  to  wonder  about 
the  wide  world  that  the  eagle  beheld,  the  eagle  that 
was  stretching  his  wings  so  far  up  in  the  blue, 
while  he,  the  poor  shepherd  boy,  could  see  only  the 
"strip  'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky  ; "  for  he  lay  in  a 
hollow. 

I  told  Mr.  Baxter  about  it  the  next  day,  which 
was  the  Saturday  before  I  joined  the  church.  I 
asked  him  if  it  was  wicked  to  long  to  see  as  much 
as  the  eagle  saw  ? 

There  was  never  anybody  quite  like  Mr.  Baxter. 

"  Rebecca  dear,"  he  said,  "  it  may  be  that  you 
need  not  always  lie  in  a  hollow,  as  the  shepherd 
boy  did  ;  but  wherever  you  lie,  that  little  strip  you 
246 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

see  '  'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky '  is  able  to  hold  all 
of  earth  and  all  of  heaven,  if  only  you  have  the 
right  sort  of  vision." 

I  was  a  long,  long  time  about  "  experiencing  re- 
ligion." I  remember  Sunday  afternoons  at  the  brick 
house  the  first  winter  after  I  went  there ;  when  I 
used  to  sit  in  the  middle  of  the  dining-room  as 
I  was  bid,  silent  and  still,  with  the  big  family  Bible 
on  my  knees.  Aunt  Miranda  had  Baxter's  "  Saints' 
Rest,"  but  her  seat  was  by  the  window,  and  she  at 
least  could  give  a  glance  into  the  street  now  and 
then  without  being  positively  wicked. 

Aunt  Jane  used  to  read  the  "  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress." The  fire  burned  low;  the  tall  clock  ticked, 
ticked,  so  slowly  and  steadily,  that  the  pictures 
swam  before  my  eyes  and  I  almost  fell  asleep. 

They  thought  by  shutting  everything  else  out 
that  I  should  see  God ;  but  I  did  n't,  not  once.  I 
was  so  homesick  for  Sunnybrook  and  John  that 
I  could  hardly  learn  my  weekly  hymns,  especially 
the  sad,  long  one  beginning :  — 

"  My  thoughts  on  awful  subjects  roll, 
Damnation  and  the  dead." 

It  was  brother  John  for  whom  I  was  chiefly 
homesick  on  Sunday  afternoons,  because  at  Sunny- 
brook  Farm  father  was  dead  and  mother  was  always 
busy,  and  Hannah  never  liked  to  talk. 

Then  the  next  year  the  missionaries  from  Syria 
247 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

came  to  Riverboro ;  and  at  the  meeting  Mr.  Burch 
saw  me  playing  the  melodeon,  and  thought  I  was 
grown  up  and  a  church  member,  and  so  he  asked 
me  to  lead  in  prayer. 

I  did  n't  dare  to  refuse,  and  when  I  prayed,  which 
was  just  like  thinking  out  loud,  I  found  I  could  talk 
to  God  a  great  deal  easier  than  to  Aunt  Miranda 
or  even  to  Uncle  Jerry  Cobb.  There  were  things 
I  could  say  to  Him  that  I  could  never  say  to  any- 
body else,  and  saying  them  always  made  me  happy 
and  contented. 

When  Mr.  Baxter  asked  me  last  year  about  join- 
ing the  church,  I  told  him  I  was  afraid  I  did  not 
understand  God  quite  well  enough  to  be  a  real 
member. 

"  So  you  don't  quite  understand  God,  Rebecca  ?  " 
he  asked,  smiling.  "  Well,  there  is  something  else 
much  more  important,  which  is,  that  He  under- 
stands you  !  He  understands  your  feeble  love,  your 
longings,  desires,  hopes,  faults,  ambitions,  crosses ; 
and  that,  after  all,  is  what  counts  !  Of  course  you 
don't  understand  Him  !  You  are  overshadowed  by 
His  love,  His  power,  His  benignity,  His  wisdom ; 
that  is  as  it  should  be !  Why,  Rebecca,  dear,  if 
you  could  stand  erect  and  unabashed  in  God's  pre- 
sence, as  one  who  perfectly  comprehended  His  na- 
ture or  His  purposes,  it  would  be  sacrilege!  Don't 
be  puzzled  out  of  your  blessed  inheritance  of  faith, 
248 


REBECCA'S   REMINISCENCES 

my  child ;  accept  God  easily  and  naturally,  just  as 
He  accepts  you ! " 

"God  never  puzzled  me,  Mr.  Baxter;  it  isn't 
that,"  I  said;  "but  the  doctrines  do  worry  me 
dreadfully." 

"  Let  them  alone  for  the  present,"  Mr.  Baxter 
said.  "Anyway,  Rebecca,  you  can  never  prove 
God ;  you  can  only  find  Him !  " 

"  Then  do  you  think  I  have  really  experienced 
religion,  Mr.  Baxter?"  I  asked.  "Am  I  the  begin- 
nings of  a  Christian  ? " 

"  You  are  a  dear  child  of  the  understanding 
God ! "  Mr.  Baxter  said ;  and  I  say  it  over  to  my- 
self night  and  morning  so  that  I  can  never  for- 
get it. 

The  year  is  nearly  over  and  the  next  few  months 
will  be  lived  in  the  rush  and  the  whirlwind  of  work 
that  comes  before  graduation.  The  bell  for  philo- 
sophy class  will  ring  in  ten  minutes,  and  as  I  have 
been  writing  for  nearly  two  hours,  I  must  learn  my 
lesson  going  up  the  Academy  hill.  It  will  not  be 
the  first  time ;  it  is  a  grand  hill  for  learning !  I 
suppose  after  fifty  years  or  so  the  very  ground  has 
become  soaked  with  knowledge,  and  every  particle 
of  air  in  the  vicinity  is  crammed  with  useful  infor- 
mation. 

I  will  put  my  book  into  my  trunk  (having  no 
249 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

blessed  haymow  hereabouts)  and  take  it  out  again, 
—  when  shall  I  take  it  out  again  ? 

After  graduation  perhaps  I  shall  be  too  grown 
up  and  too  busy  to  write  in  a  Thought  Book ;  but 
oh,  if  only  something  would  happen  worth  putting 
down  ;  something  strange ;  something  unusual ; 
something  different  from  the  things  that  happen 
every  day  in  Riverboro  and  Edgewood  ! 

Graduation  will  surely  take  me  a  little  out  of 
"the  hollow,"  —  make  me  a  little  more  like  the 
soaring  eagle,  gazing  at  the  whole  wide  world  be- 
neath him  while  he  wheels  "slow  as  in  sleep."  But 
whether  or  no,  I  '11  try  not  to  be  a  discontented 
shepherd,  but  remember  what  Mr.  Baxter  said, 
that  the  little  strip  that  I  see  "  'twixt  the  hill  and 
the  sky"  is  able  to  hold  all  of  earth  and  all  of  hea= 
ven,  if  only  I  have  the  eyes  to  see  it. 

Rebecca   Rowena  Randall. 

Wareham  Female  Seminary,  December  187-. 


Eleventh  Chronicle 

ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE   AND   THE 
FAIR   EMMAJANE 


"  A  warrior  so  bold  and  a  maiden  so  bright 

Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green. 
They  gazed  at  each  other  in  tender  delight. 
Alonzo  the  brave  was  the  name  of  the  knight, 

And  the  maid  was  the  fair  Imogene. 

" '  Alas  1 '  said  the  youth,  '  since  tomorrow  I  go 

To  fight  in  a  far  distant  land, 
Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to  flow, 
Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will  bestow 

On  a  wealthier  suitor  your  hand.' 

" '  Oh,  hush  these  suspicions  ! '  Fair  Imogene  said, 

'  So  hurtful  to  love  and  to  ine  ! 
For  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 
I  swear  by  the  Virgin  that  none  in  your  stead 

Shall  the  husband  of  Imogene  be  I '" 

EVER  since  she  was  eight  years  old  Rebecca 
had  wished  to  be  eighteen,  but  now  that 
she  was  within  a  month  of  that  awe-inspir- 
ing and  long-desired  age  she  wondered  if,  after  all, 
it  was  destined  to  be  a  turning-point  in  her  quiet 
existence.  Her  eleventh  year,  for  instance,  had 
been  a  real  turning-point,  since  it  was  then  that 
251 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

she  had  left  Sunnybrook  Farm  and  come  to  her 
maiden  aunts  in  Riverboro.  Aurelia  Randall  may 
have  been  doubtful  as  to  the  effect  upon  her  spin- 
ster sisters  of  the  irrepressible  child,  but  she  was 
hopeful  from  the  first  that  the  larger  opportunities 
of  Riverboro  would  be  the  "  making  "  of  Rebecca 
herself. 

The  next  turning-point  was  her  fourteenth  year, 
when  she  left  the  district  school  for  the  Wareham 
Female  Seminary,  then  in  the  hey-day  of  its  local 
fame.  Graduation  (next  to  marriage,  perhaps,  the 
most  thrilling  episode  in  the  life  of  a  little  country 
girl)  happened  at  seventeen,  and  not  long  after- 
ward her  Aunt  Miranda's  death,  sudden  and  un- 
expected, changed  not  only  all  the  outward  activities 
and  conditions  of  her  life,  but  played  its  own  part 
in  her  development. 

The  brick  house  looked  very  homelike  and  pleas- 
ant on  a  June  morning  nowadays,  with  children's 
faces  smiling  at  the  windows  and  youthful  footsteps 
sounding  through  the  halls  :  and  the  brass  knocker 
on  the  red-painted  front  door  might  have  remem- 
bered Rebecca's  prayer  of  a  year  before,  when  she 
leaned  against  its  sun-warmed  brightness  and 
whispered :  "  God  bless  Aunt  Miranda ;  God  bless 
the  brick  house  that  was ;  God  bless  the  brick 
house  that 's  going  to  be !  " 

All  the  doors  and  blinds  were  open  to  the  sun  and 
252 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

air  as  they  had  never  been  in  Miss  Miranda  Saw- 
yer's time.  The  hollyhock  bed  that  had  been  her 
chief  pride  was  never  neglected,  and  Rebecca  liked 
to  hear  the  neighbors  say  that  there  was  no  such 
row  of  beautiful  plants  and  no  such  variety  of  beau- 
tiful colors  in  Riverboro,  as  those  that  climbed  up 
and  peeped  in  at  the  kitchen  windows  where  old 
Miss  Miranda  used  to  sit. 

Now  that  the  place  was  her  very  own  Rebecca  felt 
a  passion  of  pride  in  its  smoothly  mown  fields,  its 
carefully  thinned-out  woods,  its  blooming  garden 
spots,  and  its  well-weeded  vegetable  patch ;  felt,  too, 
whenever  she  looked  at  any  part  of  it,  a  passion  of 
gratitude  to  the  stern  old  aunt  who  had  looked 
upon  her  as  the  future  head  of  the  family,  as  well  as 
a  passion  of  desire  to  be  worthy  of  that  trust. 

It  had  been  a  very  difficult  year  for  a  girl  fresh 
from  school :  the  death  of  her  aunt,  the  nursing  of 
Miss  Jane,  prematurely  enfeebled  by  the  shock,  the 
removal  of  her  own  invalid  mother  and  the  rest  of 
the  little  family  from  Sunnybrook  Farm.  But  all 
had  gone  smoothly;  and  when  once  the  Randall 
fortunes  had  taken  an  upward  turn  nothing  seemed 
able  to  stop  their  intrepid  ascent. 

Aurelia  Randall  renewed  her  youth  in  the  com- 
panionship of  her  sister  Jane  and  the  comforts  by 
which  her  children  were  surrounded ;   the  mort- 
gage was  no  longer  a  daily  terror,  for  Sunnybrook 
353 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

had  been  sold  to  the  new  railroad ;  Hannah,  now 
Mrs.  Will  Melville,  was  happily  situated ;  John,  at 
last,  was  studying  medicine ;  Mark,  the  boisterous 
and  unlucky  brother,  had  broken  no  bones  for  sev- 
eral months ;  while  Jenny  and  Fanny  were  doing 
well  at  the  district  school  under  Miss  Libby  Moses, 
Miss  Dearborn's  successor. 

"  I  don't  feel  very  safe,"  thought  Rebecca, 
remembering  all  these  unaccustomed  mercies  as 
she  sat  on  the  front  doorsteps,  with  her  tatting 
shuttle  flying  in  and  out  of  the  fine  cotton  like  a 
hummingbird.  "It's  just  like  one  of  those  too 
beautiful  July  days  that  winds  up  with  a  thunder- 
shower  before  night !  Still,  when  you  remember 
that  the  Randalls  never  had  anything  but  thunder 
and  lightning,  rain,  snow,  and  hail,  in  their  family 
history  for  twelve  or  fifteen  years,  perhaps  it  is 
only  natural  that  they  should  enjoy  a  little  spell  of 
settled  weather.  If  it  really  turns  out  to  be  settled, 
now  that  Aunt  Jane  and  mother  are  strong  again  I 
must  be  looking  up  one  of  what  Mr.  Aladdin  calls 
my 'cast-off  careers.'  —  There  comes  Emma  Jane 
Perkins  through  her  front  gate ;  she  will  be  here  in 
a  minute,  and  I  '11  tease  her ! "  and  Rebecca  ran 
in  the  door  and  seated  herself  at  the  old  piano  that 
stood  between  the  open  windows  in  the  parlor. 

Peeping  from  behind  the  muslin  curtains,  she 
waited  until  Emma  Jane  was  on  the  very  threshold 
254 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

and  then  began  singing  her  version  of  an  old  bal- 
lad, made  that  morning  while  she  was  dressing. 
The  ballad  was  a  great  favorite  of  hers,  and  she 
counted  on  doing  telling  execution  with  it  in  the 
present  instance  by  the  simple  subterfuge  of  re- 
moving the  original  hero  and  heroine,  Alonzo  and 
Imogene,  and  substituting  Abijah  the  Brave  and 
the  Fair  Emmajane,  leaving  the  circumstances  in 
the  first  three  verses  unaltered,  because  in  truth 
they  seemed  to  require  no  alteration. 

Her  high,  clear  voice,  quivering  with  merriment, 
floated  through  the  windows  into  the  still  summer  air : 

"  A  warrior  so  bold  and  a  maiden  so  bright 

Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green. 
They  gazed  at  each  other  in  tender  delight. 
Abijah  the  Brave  was  the  name  of  the  knight, 

And  the  maid  was  the  Fair  Emmajane." 

"  Rebecca  Randall,  stop !  Somebody  '11  hear 
you ! " 

"No,  they  won't  —  they're  making  jelly  in  the 
kitchen,  miles  away." 

"  •  Alas  ! '  said  the  youth,  '  since  to-morrow  I  go 
To  fight  in  a  far  distant  land, 
Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to  flow, 
Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will  bestow 
On  a  wealthier  suitor  your  hand.'  " 

"  Rebecca,  you  can't  think  how  your  voice  car- 
ries !  I  believe  mother  can  hear  it  over  to  my 
house  ! " 

255 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

"  Then,  if  she  can,  I  must  sing  the  third  verse, 
just  to  clear  your  reputation  from  the  cloud  cast 
upon  it  in  the  second,"  laughed  her  tormentor, 
going  on  with  the  song  :  — 

"  •  Oh,  hush  these  suspicions ! '  Fair  Emmajane  said, 
'  So  hurtful  to  love  and  to  me  I 
For  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 
I  swear,  my  Abijah,  that  none  in  your  stead, 
Shall  the  husband  of  Emmajane  be  ! ' " 

After  ending  the  third  verse  Rebecca  wheeled 
around  on  the  piano-stool  and  confronted  her  friend, 
who  was  carefully  closing  the  parlor  windows  :  — 

"Emma  Jane  Perkins,  it  is  an  ordinary  Thurs- 
day afternoon  at  four  o'clock  and  you  have  on 
your  new  blue  barege,  although  there  is  not  even 
a  church  sociable  in  prospect  this  evening.  What 
does  this  mean  ?  Is  Abijah  the  Brave  coming  at 
last?" 

"  I  don't  know  certainly,  but  it  will  be  some  time 
this  week." 

"And  of  course  you'd  rather  be  dressed  up  and 
not  seen,  than  seen  when  not  dressed  up.  Right, 
my  Fair  Emmajane ;  so  would  I.  Not  that  it  makes 
any  difference  to  poor  me,  wearing  my  fourth  best 
black  and  white  calico  and  expecting  nobody." 

"  Oh,  well, you  !  There 's  something  inside  of  you 
that  does  instead  of  pretty  dresses,"  cried  Emma 
Jane,  whose  adoration  of  her  friend  had  never  al- 
256 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

tered  nor  lessened  since  they  met  at  the  age  of 
eleven.  "You  know  you  are  as  different  from 
anybody  else  in  Riverboro  as  a  princess  in  a  fairy 
story.  Libby  Moses  says  they  would  notice  you  in 
Lowell,  Massachusetts ! " 

"  Would  they  ?  I  wonder,"  speculated  Rebecca, 
rendered  almost  speechless  by  this  tribute  to  her 
charms.  "Well,  if  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  could  see 
me,  or  if  you  could  see  me,  in  my  new  lavender 
muslin  with  the  violet  sash,  it  would  die  of  envy, 
and  so  would  you ! " 

"  If  I  had  been  going  to  be  envious  of  you,  Re- 
becca, I  should  have  died  years  ago.  Come,  let 's  go 
out  on  the  steps  where  it 's  shady  and  cool." 

"  And  where  we  can  see  the  Perkins  front  gate 
and  the  road  running  both  ways,"  teased  Rebecca, 
and  then,  softening  her  tone,  she  said  :  "  How  is  it 
getting  on,  Emmy  ?  Tell  me  what 's  happened 
since  I  've  been  in  Brunswick." 

"Nothing  much,"  confessed  Emma  Jane.  "He 
writes  to  me,  but  I  don't  write  to  him,  you  know. 
I  don't  dare  to,  till  he  comes  to  the  house." 

"  Are  his  letters  still  in  Latin  ? "  asked  Rebecca, 
with  a  twinkling  eye. 

"Oh,  no!  not  now,  because — well,  because  there 

are  things  you  can't  seem  to  write  in  Latin.   I  saw 

him  at  the  Masonic  picnic  in  the  grove,  but  he 

won't  say  anything  real  to  me  till  he  gets  more  pay 

257 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

and  dares  to  speak  to  mother  and  father.  He  is 
brave  in  all  other  ways,  but  I  ain't  sure  he  '11  ever 
have  the  courage  for  that,  he  's  so  afraid  of  them 
and  always  has  been.  Just  remember  what 's  in  his 
mind  all  the  time,  Rebecca,  that  my  folks  know  all 
about  what  his  mother  was,  and  how  he  was  born 
on  the  poor-farm.  Not  that  I  care;  look  how  he  's 
educated  and  worked  himself  up  !  I  think  he 's  per- 
fectly elegant,  and  I  should  n't  mind  if  he  had  been 
born  in  the  bulrushes,  like  Moses." 

Emma  Jane's  every-day  vocabulary  was  pretty 
much  what  it  had  been  before  she  went  to  the 
expensive  Wareham  Female  Seminary.  She  had 
acquired  a  certain  amount  of  information  concern- 
ing the  art  of  speech,  but  in  moments  of  strong 
feeling  she  lapsed  into  the  vernacular.  She  grew 
slowly  in  all  directions,  did  Emma  Jane,  and,  to 
use  Rebecca's  favorite  nautilus  figure,  she  had  left 
comparatively  few  outgrown  shells  on  the  shores  of 
"life's  unresting  sea." 

"Moses  wasn't  born  in  the  bulrushes,  Emmy 
dear,"  corrected  Rebecca  laughingly.  "Pharaoh's 
daughter  found  him  there.  It  was  n't  quite  as  ro- 
mantic a  scene  —  Squire  Bean's  wife  taking  little 
Abijah  Flagg  from  the  poorhouse  when  his  girl- 
mother  died,  but,  oh,  I  think  Abijah's  splendid  !  Mr. 
Ladd  says  Riverboro  '11  be  proud  of  him  yet,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  Emmy  dear,  if  you  had  a  three- 
258 


IS    AIUJAH    THE    P.RAVE    COMING   AT    LAST ? : 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

story  house  with  a  cupola  on  it,  some  day;  and, 
sitting  down  at  your  mahogany  desk  inlaid  with 
garnets,  you  will  write  notes  stating  that  Mrs. 
Abijah  Flagg  requests  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Re- 
becca Randall's  company  to  tea,  and  that  the  Hon. 
Abijah  Flagg,  M.  C,  will  call  for  her  on  his  way 
from  the  station  with  a  span  of  horses  and  the  tur- 
quoise carryall !" 

Emma  Jane  laughed  at  the  ridiculous  prophecy, 
and  answered  :  "  If  I  ever  write  the  invitation  I 
shan't  be  addressing  it  to  Miss  Randall,  I  'm  sure 
of  that ;  it  '11  be  to  Mrs. " 

"  Don't ! "  cried  Rebecca  impetuously,  changing 
color  and  putting  her  hand  over  Emma  Jane's  lips. 
"  If  you  won't  I  '11  stop  teasing.  I  could  n't  bear  a 
name  put  to  anything,  I  could  n't,  Emmy  dear !  I 
would  n't  tease  you,  either,  if  it  were  n't  something 
we  've  both  known  ever  so  long  —  something  that 
you  have  always  consulted  me  about  of  your  own 
accord,  and  Abijah  too." 

"Don't  get  excited,"  replied  Emma  Jane,  "I  was 
only  going  to  say  you  were  sure  to  be  Mrs.  Some- 
body in  course  of  time." 

"  Oh,"  said  Rebecca  with  a  relieved  sigh,  her 
color  coming  back  ;  "  if  that 's  all  you  meant,  just 
nonsense ;  but  I  thought,  I  thought  —  I  don't  really 
know  just  what  I  thought !  " 

"  I  think  you  thought  something  you  did  n't  want 
259 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

me  to  think  you  thought,"  said  Emma  Jane  with 
unusual  felicity. 

"  No,  it 's  not  that ;  but  somehow,  to-day,  I  have 
been  remembering  things.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
at  breakfast  Aunt  Jane  and  mother  reminded  me 
of  my  coming  birthday  and  said  that  Squire  Bean 
would  give  me  the  deed  of  the  brick  house.  That 
made  me  feel  very  old  and  responsible ;  and  when 
I  came  out  on  the  steps  this  afternoon  it  was  just 
as  if  pictures  of  the  old  years  were  moving  up 
and  down  the  road.  Everything  is  so  beautiful 
to-day  !  Does  n't  the  sky  look  as  if  it  had  been 
dyed  blue  and  the  fields  painted  pink  and  green 
and  yellow  this  very  minute  ? " 

"It 's  a  perfectly  elegant  day  ! "  responded  Emma 
Jane  with  a  sigh.  "  If  only  my  mind  was  at  rest ! 
That 's  the  difference  between  being  young  and 
grown-up.    We  never  used  to  think  and  worry." 

"  Indeed  we  did  n't !  Look,  Emmy,  there 's  the 
very  spot  where  Uncle  Jerry  Cobb  stopped  the 
stage  and  I  stepped  out  with  my  pink  parasol  and 
my  bouquet  of  purple  lilacs,  and  you  were  watching 
me  from  your  bedroom  window  and  wondering 
what  I  had  in  mother's  little  hair  trunk  strapped 
on  behind.  Poor  Aunt  Miranda  did  n't  love  me  at 
first  sight,  and  oh,  how  cross  she  was  the  first  two 
years !  But  now  every  hard  thought  I  ever  had 
comes  back  to  me  and  cuts  like  a  knife !  " 
260 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

"  She  was  dreadful  hard  to  get  along  with,  and 
I  used  to  hate  her  like  poison,"  confessed  Emma 
Jane ;  "  but  I  am  sorry  now.  She  was  kinder  to- 
ward the  last,  anyway,  and  then,  you  see  children 
know  so  little  !  We  never  suspected  she  was  sick 
or  that  she  was  worrying  over  that  lost  interest 
money." 

"  That 's  the  trouble.  People  seem  hard  and  un- 
reasonable and  unjust,  and  we  can't  help  being  hurt 
at  the  time,  but  if  they  die  we  forget  everything 
but  our  own  angry  speeches ;  somehow  we  never 
remember  theirs.  And  oh,  Emma  Jane,  there  's 
another  such  a  sweet  little  picture  out  there  in  the 
road.  The  next  day  after  I  came  to  Riverboro,  do 
you  remember,  I  stole  out  of  the  brick  house  cry- 
ing, and  leaned  against  the  front  gate.  You  pushed 
your  little  fat  pink -and -white  face  through  the 
pickets  and  said  :  '  Don't  cry  !  I  '11  kiss  you  if  you 
will  me!'" 

Lumps  rose  suddenly  in  Emma  Jane's  throat, 
and  she  put  her  arm  around  Rebecca's  waist  as  they 
sat  together  side  by  side. 

"  Oh,  I  do  remember,"  she  said  in  a  choking 
voice.  "  And  I  can  see  the  two  of  us  driving  over 
to  North  Riverboro  and  selling  soap  to  Mr.  Adam 
Ladd ;  and  lighting  up  the  premium  banquet-lamp 
at  the  Simpson  party ;  and  laying  the  daisies  round 
Jacky  Winslow's  mother  when  she  was  dead  in  the 
261 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

cabin ;    and   trundling   Jacky   up   and   down   the 
street  in  our  old  baby-carriage !  " 

"And  I  remember  you,"  continued  Rebecca, 
"  being  chased  down  the  hill  by  Jacob  Moody, 
when  we  were  being  Daughters  of  Zion  and  you 
had  been  chosen  to  convert  him !  " 

"And  I  remember  you,  getting  the  flag  back 
from  Mr.  Simpson  ;  and  how  you  looked  when  you 
spoke  your  verses  at  the  flag-raising." 

"  And  have  you  forgotten  the  week  I  refused  to 
speak  to  Abijah  Flagg  because  he  fished  my  turban 
with  the  porcupine  quills  out  of  the  river  when  I 
hoped  at  last  that  I  had  lost  it !  Oh,  Emma  Jane, 
we  had  dear  good  times  together  in  the  'little 
harbor.' " 

"  I  always  thought  that  was  an  elegant  composi- 
tion of  yours  —  that  farewell  to  the  class,"  said 
Emma  Jane. 

"The  strong  tide  bears  us  on,  out  of  the  little 
harbor  of  childhood  into  the  unknown  seas,"  re- 
called Rebecca.  "It  is  bearing  you  almost  out  of; 
my  sight,  Emmy,  these  last  days,  when  you  put 
on  a  new  dress  in  the  afternoon  and  look  out  of 
the  window  instead  of  coming  across  the  street. 
Abijah  Flagg  never  used  to  be  in  the  little  harbor 
with  the  rest  of  us ;  when  did  he  first  sail  in, 
Emmy  ? " 

Emma  Jane  grew  a  deeper  pink  and  her  button- 
262 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

hole  of  a  mouth  quivered  with  delicious  excite- 
ment. 

"  It  was  last  year  at  the  seminary,  when  he  wrote 
me  his  first  Latin  letter  from  Limerick  Academy," 
she  said  in  a  half  whisper. 

"I  remember,"  laughed  Rebecca.  "You  sud- 
denly began  the  study  of  the  dead  languages,  and 
the  Latin  dictionary  took  the  place  of  the  crochet- 
needle  in  your  affections.  It  was  cruel  of  you  never 
to  show  me  that  letter,  Emmy ! " 

"I  know  every  word  of  it  by  heart,"  said  the 
blushing  Emma  Jane,  "  and  I  think  I  really  ought 
to  say  it  to  you,  because  it 's  the  only  way  you  will 
ever  know  how  perfectly  elegant  Abijah  is.  Look 
the  other  way,  Rebecca.  Shall  I  have  to  translate 
it  for  you,  do  you  think,  because  it  seems  to  me  I 
could  not  bear  to  do  that ! " 

"  It  depends  upon  Abijah's  Latin  and  your  pro- 
nunciation," teased  Rebecca.  "Go  on;  I  will  turn 
my  eyes  toward  the  orchard." 

The  Fair  Emmajane,  looking  none  too  old  still 
for  the  "little  harbor,"  but  almost  too  young  for 
the  "unknown  seas,"  gathered  up  her  courage  and 
recited  like  a  tremulous  parrot  the  boyish  love- 
letter  that  had  so  fired  her  youthful  imagination : 

"Vale,  carissima,  carissima  puella!"  repeated 
Rebecca  in  her  musical  voice.  "  Oh,  how  beau- 
tiful it  sounds !  I  don't  wonder  it  altered  your 
263 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

feeling  for  Abijah  !  Upon  my  word,  Emma  Jane," 
she  cried  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "  if  I  had 
suspected  for  an  instant  that  Abijah  the  Brave 
had  that  Latin  letter  in  him  I  should  have  tried  to 
get  him  to  write  it  to  me ;  and  then  it  would  be  I 
who  would  sit  down  at  my  mahogany  desk  and  ask 
Miss  Perkins  to  come  to  tea  with  Mrs.  Flagg." 

Emma  Jane  paled  and  shuddered  openly.  "I 
speak  as  a  church  member,  Rebecca,"  she  said, 
"when  I  tell  you  I  've  always  thanked  the  Lord  that 
you  never  looked  at  Abijah  Flagg  and  he  never 
looked  at  you.  If  either  of  you  ever  had,  there 
never  would  have  been  a  chance  for  me,  and  I  've 
always  known  it ! " 

II 

The  romance  alluded  to  in  the  foregoing  chapter 
had  been  going  on,  so  far  as  Abijah  Flagg's  part 
of  it  was  concerned,  for  many  years,  his  affection 
dating  back  in  his  own  mind  to  the  first  moment 
that  he  saw  Emma  Jane  Perkins  at  the  age  of  nine. 

Emma  Jane  had  shown  no  sign  of  reciprocating 
his  attachment  until  the  last  three  years,  when  the 
evolution  of  the  chore-boy  into  the  budding  scholar 
and  man  of  affairs  had  inflamed  even  her  some- 
what dull  imagination. 

Squire  Bean's  wife  had  taken  Abijah  away  from 
the  poorhouse,  thinking  that  she  could  make  him 
264 


ABIJAH   THE  BRAVE 

of  some  little  use  in  her  home.  Abbie  Flagg,  the 
mother,  was  neither  wise  nor  beautiful ;  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  she  was  not  even  good,  and  her  lack  of 
all  these  desirable  qualities,  particularly  the  last 
one,  had  been  impressed  upon  the  child  ever  since 
he  could  remember.  People  seemed  to  blame 
him  for  being  in  the  world  at  all ;  this  world  that 
had  not  expected  him  nor  desired  him,  nor  made 
any  provision  for  him.  The  great  battle-axe  of 
poorhouse  opinion  was  forever  leveled  at  the  mere 
little  atom  of  innocent  transgression,  until  he  grew 
sad  and  shy,  clumsy,  stiff,  and  self-conscious.  He 
had  an  indomitable  craving  for  love  in  his  heart 
and  had  never  received  a  caress  in  his  life. 

He  was  more  contented  when  he  came  to  Squire 
Bean's  house.  The  first  year  he  could  only  pick  up 
chips,  carry  pine  wood  into  the  kitchen,  go  to  the 
post-office,  run  errands,  drive  the  cows,  and  feed 
the  hens,  but  every  day  he  grew  more  and  more 
useful. 

His  only  friend  was  little  Jim  Watson,  the  store- 
keeper's  son, and  they  were  inseparable  companions 
whenever  Abijah  had  time  for  play. 

One  never-to-be-forgotten  July  day  a  new  family 
moved  into  the  white  cottage  between  Squire 
Bean's  house  and  the  Sawyers'.  Mr.  Perkins  had 
sold  his  farm  beyond  North  Riverboro  and  had  es- 
tablished a  blacksmith's  shop  in  the  village,  at  the 
265 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

Edgewood  end  of  the  bridge.  This  fact  was  of  no 
special  interest  to  the  nine-year-old  Abijah,  but 
what  really  was  of  importance,  was  the  appearance 
of  a  pretty  little  girl  of  seven  in  the  front  yard ;  a 
pretty  little  fat  doll  of  a  girl,  with  bright  fuzzy  hair, 
pink  cheeks,  blue  eyes,  and  a  smile  of  almost  be- 
wildering continuity.  Another  might  have  criticised 
it  as  having  the  air  of  being  glued  on,  but  Abijah 
was  already  in  the  toils  and  never  wished  it  to 
move. 

The  next  day  being  the  glorious  Fourth  and  a 
holiday,  Jimmy  Watson  came  over  like  David,  to 
visit  his  favorite  Jonathan.  His  Jonathan  met 
him  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  pleaded  a  pressing  en- 
gagement, curtly  sent  him  home,  and  then  went 
back  to  play  with  his  new  idol,  with  whom  he  had 
already  scraped  acquaintance,  her  parents  being  ex- 
ceedingly busy  settling  the  new  house. 

After  the  noon  dinner  Jimmy  again  yearned  to 
resume  friendly  relations,  and,  forgetting  his  rebuff, 
again  toiled  up  the  hill  and  appeared  unexpectedly 
at  no  great  distance  from  the  Perkins  premises, 
wearing  the  broad  and  beaming  smile  of  one  who 
is  confident  of  welcome. 

His  morning  call  had  been  officious  and  unpleas- 
ant and  unsolicited,  but  his  afternoon  visit  could 
only  be  regarded  as  impudent,  audacious,  and  posi- 
tively dangerous ;  for  Abijah  and  Emma  Jane  were 
266 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

cosily  playing  house,  the  game  of  all  others  in  which 
it  is  particularly  desirable  to  have  two  and  not  three 
participants. 

At  that  moment  the  nature  of  Abijah  changed, 
at  once  and  forever.  Without  a  pang  of  conscience 
he  flew  over  the  intervening  patch  of  ground  be- 
tween himself  and  his  dreaded  rival,  and  seizing 
small  stones  and  larger  ones,  as  haste  and  fury  de- 
manded, flung  them  at  Jimmy  Watson,  and  flung 
and  flung,  till  the  bewildered  boy  ran  down  the  hill 
howling.  Then  he  made  a  "  stickin'  "  door  to  the 
play-house,  put  the  awed  Emma  Jane  inside,  and 
strode  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  edifice  like  an 
Indian  brave.  At  such  an  early  age  does  woman 
become  a  distracting  and  disturbing  influence  in 
man's  career! 

Time  went  on,  and  so  did  the  rivalry  between 
the  poorhouse  boy  and  the  son  of  wealth,  but  Abi- 
jah's  chances  of  friendship  with  Emma  Jane  grew 
fewer  and  fewer  as  they  both  grew  older.  He  did 
not  go  to  school,  so  there  was  no  meeting-ground 
there,  but  sometimes,  when  he  saw  the  knot  of 
boys  and  girls  returning  in  the  afternoon,  he  would 
invite  Elijah  and  Elisha,  the  Simpson  twins,  to 
visit  him,  and  take  pains  to  be  in  Squire  Bean's 
front  yard  doing  something  that  might  impress  his 
inamorata  as  she  passed  the  premises. 

As  Jimmy  Watson  was  particularly  small  and 
267 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

fragile,  Abijah  generally  chose  feats  of  strength 
and  skill  for  these  prearranged  performances. 

Sometimes  he  would  throw  his  hat  up  into  the 
elm-trees  as  far  as  he  could  and,  when  it  came 
down,  catch  it  on  his  head.  Sometimes  he  would 
walk  on  his  hands,  with  his  legs  wriggling  in  the 
air,  or  turn  a  double  somersault,  or  jump  incredi- 
ble distances  across  the  extended  arms  of  the 
Simpson  twins  ;  and  his  bosom  swelled  with  pride 
when  the  girls  exclaimed,  "Isn't  he  splendid!" 
although  he  often  heard  his  rival  murmur  scornfully, 
"  Smarty  Aleck  /  " — a  scathing  allusion  of  unknown 
origin. 

Squire  Bean,  although  he  did  not  send  the  boy 
to  school  (thinking,  as  he  was  of  no  possible  im- 
portance in  the  universe,  it  was  not  worth  while 
bothering  about  his  education),  finally  became  im- 
pressed with  his  ability,  lent  him  books,  and  gave 
him  more  time  to  study.  These  were  all  he  needed, 
books  and  time,  and  when  there  was  an  especially 
hard  knot  to  untie,  Rebecca,  as  the  star  scholar  of 
the  neighborhood,  helped  him  to  untie  it. 

When  he  was  sixteen  he  longed  to  go  away  from 
Riverboro  and  be  something  better  than  a  chore- 
boy.  Squire  Bean  had  been  giving  him  small  wages 
for  three  or  four  years,  and  when  the  time  of  part- 
ing came  presented  him  with  a  ten-dollar  bill  and 
a  silver  watch. 

268 


ABIJAH   THE  BRAVE 

Many  a  time  had  he  discussed  his  future  with 
Rebecca  and  asked  her  opinion. 

This  was  not  strange,  for  there  was  nothing  in 
human  form  that  she  could  not  and  did  not  con- 
verse with,  easily  and  delightedly.  She  had  ideas 
on  every  conceivable  subject,  and  would  have  cheer- 
fully advised  the  minister  if  he  had  asked  her.  The 
fishman  consulted  her  when  he  could  n't  endure 
his  mother-in-law  another  minute  in  the  house; 
Uncle  Jerry  Cobb  did  n't  part  with  his  river  field 
until  he  had  talked  it  over  with  Rebecca ;  and  as 
for  Aunt  Jane,  she  could  n't  decide  whether  to 
wear  her  black  merino  or  her  gray  thibet  unless 
Rebecca  cast  the  final  vote. 

Abijah  wanted  to  go  far  away  from  Riverboro, 
as  far  as  Limerick  Academy,  which  was  at  least 
fifteen  miles;  but  although  this  seemed  extreme, 
Rebecca  agreed,  saying  pensively:  "There  is  a 
kind  of  magicness  about  going  far  away  and  then 
coming  back  all  changed." 

This  was  precisely  Abijah's  unspoken  thought. 
Limerick  knew  nothing  of  Abbie  Flagg's  worth- 
lessness,  birth,  and  training,  and  the  awful  stigma  of 
his  poorhouse  birth,  so  that  he  would  start  fair.  He 
could  have  gone  to  Wareham  and  thus  remained 
within  daily  sight  of  the  beloved  Emma  Jane  ;  but 
no,  he  was  not  going  to  permit  her  to  watch  him  in 
the  process  of  "becoming,"  but  after  he  had  "be- 
269 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

come  "  something.  He  did  not  propose  to  take  any 
risks  after  all  these  years  of  silence  and  patience. 
Not  he  !  He  proposed  to  disappear,  like  the  moon 
on  a  dark  night,  and  as  he  was,  at  present,  some- 
thing that  Mr.  Perkins  would  by  no  means  have  in 
the  family  nor  Mrs.  Perkins  allow  in  the  house,  he 
would  neither  return  to  Riverboro  nor  ask  any  fa- 
vors of  them  until  he  had  something  to  offer.  Yes, 
sir.  He  was  going  to  be  crammed  to  the  eyebrows 
with  learning  for  one  thing,  —  useless  kinds  and  all, 
—  going  to  have  good  clothes,  and  a  good  income. 
Everything  that  was  in  his  power  should  be  right, 
because  there  would  always  be  lurking  in  the  back- 
ground the  things  he  never  could  help  —  the 
mother  and  the  poorhouse. 

So  he  went  away,  and  although  at  Squire  Bean's 
invitation  he  came  back  the  first  year  for  two  brief 
visits  at  Christmas  and  Easter,  he  was  little  seen 
in  Riverboro,  for  Mr.  Ladd  finally  found  him  a 
place  where  he  could  make  his  vacations  profitable 
and  learn  bookkeeping  at  the  same  time. 

The  visits  in  Riverboro  were  tantalizing  rather 
than  pleasant.  He  was  invited  to  two  parties,  but 
he  was  all  the  time  conscious  of  his  shirt-collar,  and 
he  was  sure  that  his  "pants"  were  not  the  proper 
thing,  for  by  this  time  his  ideals  of  dress  had  at- 
tained an  almost  unrealizable  height.  As  for  his 
shoes,  he  felt  that  he  walked  on  carpets  as  if  they 
270 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

were  furrows  and  he  were  propelling  a  plow  or  a 
harrow  before  him.  They  played  Drop  the  Hand- 
kerchief and  Copenhagen  at  the  parties,  but  he 
had  not  had  the  audacity  to  kiss  Emma  Jane,  which 
was  bad  enough,  but  Jimmy  had  and  did,  which  was 
infinitely  worse  !  The  sight  of  James  Watson's  un- 
worthy and  over-ambitious  lips  on  Emma  Jane's 
pink  cheek  almost  destroyed  his  faith  in  an  over- 
ruling Providence. 

After  the  parties  were  over  he  went  back  to  his 
old  room  in  Squire  Bean's  shed  chamber.  As  he 
lay  in  bed  his  thoughts  fluttered  about  Emma  Jane 
as  swallows  circle  around  the  eaves.  The  terrible 
sickness  of  hopeless  handicapped  love  kept  him 
awake.  Once  he  crawled  out  of  bed  in  the  night, 
lighted  the  lamp,  and  looked  for  his  mustache, 
remembering  that  he  had  seen  a  suspicion  of  down 
on  his  rival's  upper  lip.  He  rose  again  half  an  hour 
later,  again  lighted  the  lamp,  put  a  few  drops  of  oil 
on  his  hair,  and  brushed  it  violently  for  several 
minutes.  Then  he  went  back  to  bed,  and  after 
making  up  his  mind  that  he  would  buy  a  dulcimer 
and  learn  to  play  on  it  so  that  he  would  be  more 
attractive  at  parties,  and  outshine  his  rival  in  so- 
ciety as  he  had  aforetime  in  athletics,  he  finally 
sank  into  a  troubled  slumber. 

Those  days,  so  full  of  hope  and  doubt  and  tor- 
ture, seemed  mercifully  unreal  now,  they  lay  so  far 
271 


NEW  CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

back  in  the  past  —  six  or  eight  years,  in  fact,  which 
is  a  lifetime  to  the  lad  of  twenty  —  and  meantime 
he  had  conquered  many  of  the  adverse  circum- 
stances that  had  threatened  to  cloud  his  career. 

Abijah  Flagg  was  a  true  child  of  his  native  State. 
Something  of  the  same  timber  that  Maine  puts  into 
her  forests,  something  of  the  same  strength  and 
resisting  power  that  she  works  into  her  rocks,  goes 
into  her  sons  and  daughters  ;  and  at  twenty  Abijah 
was  going  to  take  his  fate  in  his  hand  and  ask  Mr. 
Perkins,  the  rich  blacksmith,  if,  after  a  suitable 
period  of  probation  (during  which  he  would  further 
prepare  himself  for  his  exalted  destiny),  he  might 
marry  the  fair  Emma  Jane,  sole  heiress  of  the  Per- 
kins house  and  fortunes. 

Ill 

This  was  boy  and  girl  love,  calf  love,  perhaps, 
though  even  that  may  develop  into  something 
larger,  truer,  and  finer;  but  not  so  far  away  were 
other  and  very  different  hearts  growing  and  bud- 
ding, each  in  its  own  way.  There  was  little  Miss 
Dearborn,  the  pretty  school-teacher,  drifting  into  a 
foolish  alliance  because  she  did  not  agree  with 
her  stepmother  at  home ;  there  was  Herbert  Dunn, 
valedictorian  of  his  class,  dazzled  by  Huldah  Me- 
serve,  who  like  a  glowworm  "  shone  afar  off  bright, 
but  looked  at  near,  had  neither  heat  nor  light." 
272 


ABIJAH   THE  BRAVE 

There  was  sweet  Emily  Maxwell,  less  than  thirty 
still,  with  most  of  her  heart  bestowed  in  the  wrong 
quarter.  She  was  toiling  on  at  the  Wareham  school, 
living  as  unselfish  a  life  as  a  nun  in  a  convent  ; 
lavishing  the  mind  and  soul  of  her,  the  heart  and 
body  of  her,  on  her  chosen  work.  How  many 
women  give  themselves  thus,  consciously  and  un- 
consciously ;  and,  though  they  themselves  miss  the 
joys  and  compensations  of  mothering  their  own  lit- 
tle twos  and  threes,  God  must  be  grateful  to  them 
for  their  mothering  of  the  hundreds  which  make 
them  so  precious  in  His  regenerating  purposes. 

Then  there  was  Adam  Ladd,  waiting  at  thirty- 
five  for  a  girl  to  grow  a  little  older,  simply  be- 
cause he  could  not  find  one  already  grown  who 
suited  his  somewhat  fastidious  and  exacting  tastes. 

"  I  '11  not  call  Rebecca  perfection,"  he  quoted 
once, in  a  letter  to  Emily  Maxwell, — "I  '11  not  call 
her  perfection,  for  that 's  a  post,  afraid  to  move. 
But  she 's  a  dancing  sprig  of  the  tree  next  it." 

When  first  she  appeared  on  his  aunt's  piazza 
in  North  Riverboro  and  insisted  on  selling  him  a 
large  quantity  of  very  inferior  soap  in  order  that 
her  friends,  the  Simpsons,  might  possess  a  pre- 
mium in  the  shape  of  a  greatly  needed  banquet 
lamp,  she  had  riveted  his  attention.  He  thought 
at  the  time  that  he  enjoyed  talking  with  her  more 

than  with  any  woman  alive,  and   he  had  never 
273 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

changed  his  opinion.  She  always  caught  what  he 
said  as  if  it  were  a  ball  tossed  to  her,  and  some- 
times her  mind,  as  through  it  his  thoughts  came 
back  to  him,  seemed  like  a  prism  which  had  dyed 
them  with  deeper  colors. 

Adam  Ladd  always  called  Rebecca  in  his  heart 
his  little  Spring.  His  boyhood  had  been  lonely  and 
unhappy.  That  was  the  part  of  life  he  had  missed, 
and  although  it  was  the  full  summer  of  success 
and  prosperity  with  him  now,  he  found  his  lost 
youth  only  in  her. 

She  was  to  him  —  how  shall  I  describe  it  ? 

Do  you  remember  an  early  day  in  May  with 
budding  leaf,  warm  earth,  tremulous  air,  and 
changing,  willful  sky  —  how  new  it  seemed  ?  how 
fresh  and  joyous  beyond  all  explaining? 

Have  you  lain  with  half-closed  eyes  where  the 
flickering  of  sunlight  through  young  leaves,  the 
song  of  birds  and  brook  and  the  fragrance  of  wild 
flowers  combined  to  charm  your  senses,  and  you 
felt  the  sweetness  and  grace  of  nature  as  never 
before  ? 

Rebecca  was  springtide  to  Adam's  thirsty  heart. 
She  was  blithe  youth  incarnate ;  she  was  music  — 
an  iEolian  harp  that  every  passing  breeze  woke 
to  some  whispering  little  tune ;  she  was  a  chan- 
ging, iridescent  joy-bubble ;  she  was  the  shadow 
of  a  leaf  dancing  across  a  dusty  floor.  No  bough 
274 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

of  his  thought  could  be  so  bare  but  she  somehow 
built  a  nest  in  it  and  evoked  life  where  none  was 
before. 

And  Rebecca  herself  ? 

She  had  been  quite  unconscious  of  all  this  until 
very  lately,  and  even  now  she  was  but  half  awak- 
ened; searching  among  her  childish  instincts  and 
her  girlish  dreams  for  some  Ariadne  thread  that 
should  guide  her  safely  through  the  labyrinth  of  her 
new  sensations. 

For  the  moment  she  was  absorbed,  or  thought 
she  was,  in  the  little  love  story  of  Abijah  and  Emma 
Jane,  but  in  reality,  had  she  realized  it,  that  love 
story  served  chiefly  as  a  basis  of  comparison  for  a 
possible  one  of  her  own,  later  on. 

She  liked  and  respected  Abijah  Flagg,  and  lov- 
ing Emma  Jane  was  a  habit  contracted  early  in  life; 
but  everything  that  they  did  or  said,  or  thought  or 
wrote,  or  hoped  or  feared,  seemed  so  inadequate,  so 
painfully  short  of  what  might  be  done  or  said,  or 
thought  or  written,  or  hoped  or  feared,  under  easily 
conceivable  circumstances,  that  she  almost  felt  a 
disposition  to  smile  gently  at  the  fancy  of  the  igno- 
rant young  couple  that  they  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  great  vision. 

She  was  sitting  under  the  sweet-apple  tree  at 
twilight.  Supper  was  over;  Mark's  restless  feet 
were  quiet,  Fanny  and  Jenny  were  tucked  safely  in 
275 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF   REBECCA 

bed  ;  her  aunt  and  her  mother  were  stemming  cur- 
rants on  the  side  porch. 

A  blue  -  spot  at  one  of  the  Perkins  windows 
showed  that  in  one  vestal  bosom  hope  was  not  dead 
yet,  although  it  was  seven  o'clock. 

Suddenly  there  was  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet 
coming  up  the  quiet  road ;  plainly  a  steed  hired 
from  some  metropolis  like  Milltown  or  Wareham, 
as  Riverboro  horses  when  through  with  their  day's 
work  never  disported  themselves  so  gayly. 

A  little  open  vehicle  came  in  sight,  and  in  it  sat 
Abijah  Flagg.  The  wagon  was  so  freshly  painted 
and  so  shiny  that  Rebecca  thought  that  he  must 
have  alighted  at  the  bridge  and  given  it  a  last 
polish.  The  creases  in  his  trousers,  too,  had  an  air 
of  having  been  pressed  in  only  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore. The  whip  was  new  and  had  a  yellow  ribbon 
on  it ;  the  gray  suit  of  clothes  was  new,  and  the 
coat  flourished  a  flower  in  its  button-hole.  The 
hat  was  the  latest  thing  in  hats,  and  the  intrepid 
swain  wore  a  seal-ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his 
right  hand.  As  Rebecca  remembered  that  she  had 
guided  it  in  making  capital  G's  in  his  copy-book, 
she  felt  positively  maternal,  although  she  was  two 
years  younger  than  Abijah  the  Brave. 

He  drove  up  to  the  Perkins  gate  and  was  so  long 
about  hitching  the  horse  that  Rebecca's  heart  beat 
tumultuously  at  the  thought  of  Emma  Jane's  heart 
276 


ABIJAH   THE   BRAVE 

waiting  under  the  blue  barege.  Then  he  brushed 
an  imaginary  speck  off  his  sleeve,  then  he  drew  on 
a  pair  of  buff  kid  gloves,  then  he  went  up  the  path, 
rapped  at  the  knocker,  and  went  in. 

"  Not  all  the  heroes  go  to  the  wars,"  thought 
Rebecca.  "  Abijah  has  laid  the  ghost  of  his  father 
and  redeemed  the  memory  of  his  mother,  for  no 
one  will  dare  say  again  that  Abbie  Flagg's  son 
could  never  amount  to  anything !  " 

The  minutes  went  by,  and  more  minutes,  and 
more.  The  tranquil  dusk  settled  down  over  the 
little  village  street  and  the  young  moon  came  out 
just  behind  the  top  of  the  Perkins  pine-tree. 

The  Perkins  front  door  opened  and  Abijah  the 
Brave  came  out  hand  in  hand  with  his  Fair  Emma- 
jane. 

They  walked  through  the  orchard,  the  eyes  of 
the  old  couple  following  them  from  the  window, 
and  just  as  they  disappeared  down  the  green  slope 
that  led  to  the  riverside  the  gray  coat-sleeve  en- 
circled the  blue  barege  waist. 

Rebecca,  quivering  with  instant  sympathy  and 
comprehension,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Emmy  has  sailed  away  and  I  am  all  alone  in 
the  little  harbor,"  she  thought. 

It  was  as  if  childhood,  like  a  thing  real  and  vis- 
ible, were  slipping  down  the  grassy  river-banks, 
after  Abijah  and  Emma  Jane,  and  disappearing 
277 


NEW   CHRONICLES   OF  REBECCA 

like  them  into  the  moon-lit  shadows  of  the  summer 
night, 

"I  am  all  alone  in  the  little  harbor,"  she  re- 
peated; "and  oh,  I  wonder,  I  wonder,  shall  I  be 
afraid  to  leave  it,  if  anybody  ever  comes  to  cany 
me  out  to  sea!" 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine  of  FIVE 
CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  is  DUE  on  the 
DAY  indicated  below: 


